


Door Number 104

by angree_baratheon



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: College AU, Culture Shock, Jean has a cat, Like extremely slow I'm actually apologetic but THEY'LL GET THERE, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV First Person, References to Depression, Slow Burn, So much pining it's ridiculous, Social Anxiety, Temporarily Unrequited Love, idk why thats important i just need that documented
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-07-09 23:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angree_baratheon/pseuds/angree_baratheon
Summary: Sure, lifecouldbe more exciting for me, but I’m rather content with quiet mornings like this. Morgana is lapping away at her food, the laundry from yesterday looks all dried up and ready to be fold, my phone’s all charged for me to not be in haste when it’s time for me to leave, my fridge are all stored up for me to cook myself a nice omelette and—My nextdoor neighbour is having loud and possibly kinky sex.Or, that AU where Marco and Jean are next-door neighbour with paper-thin walls which means Jean can hear each and every time Marco's having guest over. Marco, on the other hand, is struggling badly adjusting to the city life and is possibly having the worst romance of the century. When Jean and Marco officially meet, they may just learn they can't actually leave the other alone.





	1. Jean, A Typical Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually ashamed to announce that I've been working on this fanfiction since November 2017. It is now halfway through 2019, and I've only managed to plot this entire plot-bunny-turned-monster out 'till Chapter 18 with, possibly, more chapters to go. (It is also shameful to admit the reason behind this is because I've left this work on Google Doc in 2017 and proceed to neglect this for a full-fledged year before I accidentally stumble upon it once again in February 2019.) Am I an unreliable writer? Maybe so.
> 
> Regardless, I've been working on this on-and-off since my re-discovery and, as I've stated, I managed to actually fully orchestra the planning of this fiction 'till Chapter 18. I also have promised myself that, with Chapter 7 finished, I may allow this piece of story to finally be published and released to the mass public. The same mass public, I hope, who are still sticking around to consume media about these two amazing, loveable and rich-with-potential characters.
> 
> The inspiration for this plot is from a manga I've read, _Suki, Kamo._ by Hokutou Noriko sensei, so many thanks for that. Of course, I've taken creative liberties in expanding far more of what happened to our protagonist than the four-chapter manga have provided. Other than that, I've always, _always_ been in love with Legendaerie's [Double Sausage With Extra Cheese](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037035/chapters/2068324) which, in all honesty, has been a fanfiction I've highly regarded. It _is_ unfinished, as per all the great writings usually are, but I do recommend it for reading, so! Feel free to check that out if you'd like. In any case, enough of me rambling 'cause I won't shut up, do enjoy the first chapter!

It was an ordinary Tuesday day when I feel Morgana’s thin tongue licking up the side of my shaved sideburn.

If you’re wondering who _Morgana_ is, it’s totally not some girl whose mom was a big fan of the Arthurian Legend or, like, Katie McGrath, and had some very weird fetish with licking a trace of my hair. In fact, some days — though rarely — I kinda wish I’m that lucky. To bring a girl home. Or a dude. I’m still not that open over the fact that I can go _both ways_ , but yeah. You get what I mean.

But nope. I’m not so lucky.

Morgana is my cat, by the way. Well, she wasn’t, initially. She was just some stray cat I picked up during my first two weeks here after I realise I’m lonelier than I thought. It’s a really romantic story, actually. I was the brat who would donate whatever that’s left of my dinner to this cat. In return, she would come to mewl at my feet whenever I trudge myself home every evening like clockwork until it hits me: she didn’t just keep returning because of my generosity — she had needed my company just as bad as I had need hers.

Like I said: romantic.

Anyway, Morgana is a very timely lover. She would wake up exactly thirty minutes before my alarm goes off, proceeds to lick me until I succumb to reality and make her breakfast, and listens as my phone goes off just as I enter the bathroom earlier than I would normally schedule. I would complain that she’s very bossy in that sense, but how can I when she looks at me like I personally hang all of the stars every time I chunk the cat food in her bowl.

This morning is the same. I wake up by tackling Morgana — who leaps to my chest and feigns innocence when I call her a witch — before forcing my body to begin my day. I’m not supposed to have class ‘till eleven o’clock, but it’s very excellent to know Morgana wouldn’t give a single shit about it either way. She’s a menace, that little demon. At least it rids me of my sleeping-till-noon habit. I do my laundry quite early since I have her.

“You should be thankful I like you,” I mutter when I walk to the cabinet to pull out her bowl, and Morgana is quick to steal my heart by purring and practically curling herself against my calves. I try to hide my smirk at how much she’s so affectionate at me, but I think she’s spotted it when she gives me a sneaky stare before purring louder than usual.

I’m… a pretty lonely guy, I know. I would say that it isn’t my fault, but that isn’t entirely the truth.

The only social interactions I’ve got going on for me are any group assignments or projects I would have to do with my classmates, and maybe some lunch dates if they were being fairly kind to invite me so. It’s not to say I’m a bad company, but I do admit that I have a temper. To add to that, I'm a fairly blunt guy. Those sort of characteristics don’t tend to have many people flock around me.

It's always been that way though. Even back at Trost, I was often bullied as a child. It became very bad when I hadn’t known how else to channel my disappointment at being rejected by the children around me that I ended up taking out a lot of my anger at my parents and anybody who dared make fun of me. My short temper would naturally have me isolated from a lot of my peers, and it wasn’t until I was thirteen and Connie moved into town, that I’d known what friends really are.

Connie became the gateway to the closest thing I can call a social clique. I began to hang around Sasha, a girl who was homeschooled most of her life until high school, when Connie accidentally trespassed the Braus’ territory. I talk to people more rather than just scowl into my book and pretend I’m not interested by the events around me as I’ve perfectly pretended years before, and by the time I was fifteen, both Connie and Sasha was crazily encouraging enough that they talked me into joining the Arts club.

Needless to say, life wasn’t… it wasn’t that good to me. I was lonely, angry, and I could be a bitch when I’m provoked. But it wasn’t… _bad_ either. It took a while, but I realise now that it wasn’t entirely all bad.

In any case, if you thought my life were any sadder than this, I would insist to you right now that it’s not. I’m just mostly a normal white guy, with two-toned hair, who likes Arts and loves his mom and have two weirdos as my best friends. They’re not here, though. Connie and Sasha, bless them, eloped in some rebellious act at age nineteen and they’re mostly paying for themselves from all of those Youtube videos of Sasha cooking and tasting recipes as they both travel all around the world.

I know right — lucky bastards.

But whatever. It’s fine, though. I’m fine. Sure, life _could_ be more exciting for me, but I’m rather content with quiet mornings like this. Morgana is lapping away at her food, the laundry from yesterday looks all dried up and ready to be fold, my phone’s all charged for me to not be in haste when it’s time for me to leave, my fridge are all stored up for me to cook myself a nice omelette and—

My nextdoor neighbour is having loud and possibly kinky sex.

I know it’s just not my imagination because I can see Morgana flinching when a particular sound from my neighbor’s bed is creaking. I flinch too, partially apologetic from seeing my cat so startled by such, er, _sound_ , but mostly because I, too, wish that my neighbour could, like… _chill_.

I mean, sure. Good for him. He’s getting laid. What a fortunate luck he’s having, but honestly? This isn’t the first time. I’m pretty sure it’s the fifth time this month, and it’s only been two weeks into February. I bend down to pet Morgana as I hear my neighbour — or his partner (frankly, I don’t really keep tabs) — moans, “Right there?” followed by a hiss of “Yeah! _Oh!_ ”

 _Yeah, Oh_ , indeed. 

Morgana seems appreciative of my comforting gesture, and she purrs into my palm before she resumes her act of consuming her food. I watch her for a while, pulled so naturally into the way she bends her head to take her breakfast, while the bed next door continues to creak.

 _Man_. That must be nice.

When’s the last time _I’ve_ received some action? My body shivers at the memory that forms quickly after I’ve ended the question. Hitch. Yeah, it was kinky alright. The closest thing, I suspect, to the wildest sex I could ever get. But man, was being with Hitch _unhealthy_. 

Maybe this is revenge. For all of those times Hitch would give me a blowjob just to avoid the subject of all of the men she’s been _texting_ — that my neighbour is doing this back to me. I don’t know if I can be loud, but Hitch has once said that I made the “prettiest of sounds”, which is, you know, too much information, but still. Was I that too noisy that fate has it in to make sure the favour is now returned?

Then again, I’m fairly certain my neighbour wasn’t there when I first began my education here at Sina, which was when I first met Hitch and we had that — you know — that _thing_. I don’t see my neighbour often. I just knew he moved in right when the season of new-intakes at my University was rolling around, which made me suspected that he may be a new student.

I know he’s a dude, and he had a lot of stuff with him. I remember boxes piling up till the hallways that Morgana often slither around when I left the door open just slightly for her to sneak out. The first time I really saw him, I was on the phone with Maman, which made any possible conversation cease immediately from existing. I was awkward anyway, with introductions and idle chats, and was partially grateful when I had to excuse myself after he briefly passed me a wave and a “Hello, I’m your new neighbor!”

I did tell him my name, though. “Right,” I said, when I told Maman that I have company and she mocked me by exclaiming dramatically how her son wouldn’t have bothered with anyone before _so who is this she’s truly speaking to_ , to which I pointedly ignore, and shrugged, “Uh. Welcome.”

“I’m Marco.” My neighbour said, smiling very broadly and enthusiastically, that I couldn’t help but to feel a little overwhelmed by it. I remember Connie and Sasha often wear happy masks, as well, but they usually have a wild mischief to their expression that you would know you couldn’t trust. Marco’s, however, seems far too sincere. I felt like a single grass being compared to a garden.

“Jean.” I still confess, urging my lips to thin out and perform the best half-smile I could muster. Apparently, if it had looked like shit, Marco didn’t think so — or were able to hide his disdain very well — when he only beamed back far more broadly than before, if that was even possible.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jean.” He had said my name carefully, his accent not at all twisting my name into a weird pronunciation of ‘John’ and I remember feeling thankful for it. I’d hate to correct people on my name. Hitch would often call me ‘Jeen’ just to screw with me. I think riling me up turns her on.

“Uh, yeah. Same.” I rushed into my response, and pointed to my phone. “Sorry, I gotta take this.”

And that was that. Marco was a very polite man, and I remember describing to Maman of his freckles and tan skin and broad shoulders — I’ve always been envious of people who have a more ‘sculpted’ body than what I posses. I am well aware my lean body and narrow waist isn’t all admirable. Back when I was with Hitch, I used to think that I’ve gotten lucky that someone as beautiful as Hitch would have wanted somebody as scrawny as I am.

Sometimes, I still think that way.

In any case, I suppose Marco is _quite_ attractive. I hadn’t at all pegged him as homosexual until the sex started about a few weeks later, and I was woken up with rough grunts and low moans instead of a soft sighs and desperate shrilling shriek of a female’s voice. Then it became a routine. Sometimes the noises are often: day-by-day-by-day. Sometimes Marco’s room would be quiet for weeks, until I hear it again.

One thing for sure, though. I recognise Marco’s partner. 

That is, to say, if Marco isn’t changing partner every other night.

He’s a senior of mine in the Arts department, though I don’t talk to him. I do see him when I have to attend a special seminar featuring lecturers or artists the University would often invite. I see his paintings decorating some exhibits, too. He’s into abstract paintings and visualisation, which are always a headache to sit or think through in my opinion, but I know from just one look that he’s talented. Still, he isn’t the kind of guy I would go to for a kind conversation. I’d reckon I would sooner receive a lawsuit than a gentle advice should we both are forced to socialise. Don’t blame me — years of isolation has shaped me enough to know which sort of group would piss me off and which wouldn’t.

Nac’s the kind of people you should only converse with if it’s necessary.

But hey, maybe he isn’t that bad. I can be such a hypocrite. For all that I know, a lot of people have categorised me as somebody they would all stay clear of, but honestly, I think I’m a pretty tolerable guy. Hitch’s opinion aside, I think Hannah and Franz — my classmates — like me enough. Hannah always trusts my opinions whether it be on our assignment or personal things like a gift to get for her baby cousin (lord knows why, I have zero experience with kids, Jesus), and Franz would often chat with me about — hell, I don’t know, football matches? They’re kind of exciting. I’m not a huge fan, not usually, but it’s a mundane conversation that makes me feel human. Or, well, makes me feel like I’m still apart of the larger society.

By the time I step out of the shower, I don’t hear anything from Marco’s apartment.

I pull on a worn tracksuit, tug my towel around my neck, and proceed to step out of my house to get rid of the trash that’s been accumulating since the weekends. Morgana has finished with her breakfast, and she’s up for trying to catch a man-made toy I made for her that’s been tied up to a chair like a fish rod. She keeps jumping to catch the bait, and barely realises when I pass her to take out the trash.

The hallway is cold when I step out, and I momentarily regret not picking up a shirt just to cover up any possible situation where people can see my skinny body in daylight, but I make a run for it because, you know, _fuck it_. When I return, the door next to mine, apartment 103, Marco’s apartment, has just puked out a guest.

Nac is staring at me.

I guess now that he’s done shagging Marco, he has to do the walk of shame. I wonder why he didn’t just leave any of his belonging in Marco’s apartment, considering they’re totally making this a _thing_ . And, should my calculations be right, this _has_ been a thing for a few months. But it really isn’t my problem. And as much as I would like to point out that Nac has a serious sex hair of the _century_ , I don’t, because it really isn’t my business — as though reading my mind, Nac pays no attention to me, turns around and walks off.

I shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll provide few little footnote or like, comments, as we go further into the story to explain the few things I may not be able to explain in either Jean or Marco's narrative for visualisation purposes. With that said, the story _is_ planned in a way that each chapter alternates between Jean and Marco's point of views. I actually have no concrete idea why or how I've started writing it this way but, upon The Rediscovery(tm), I have written up until Chapter 4 with this narrative and thus, have decided to continue the way I began.
> 
> Leave a comment or give kudos, please! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Next chapter will feature Marco, what has been up with him, and what his thoughts are on our residential two-toned, prone-to-gruff-and-glare old (but young on the outside) man.


	2. Marco, Longing To Fit In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the chapter featuring Marco's point of view!
> 
> Some of the things I should potentially note are:
> 
> (1) Since it _was_ majorly inspired by a manga, I do imagine the flat both Marco and Jean occupy are similar to those of low-income Japanese apartments. They're indeed very small, with just the basic accommodation of space provided. So, in my head, upon entering, the kitchen is on the right, then there's the door to the bathroom. You go further, and there's the whole space of your living room mashing up with your bedroom. Then, there's a small balcony. Some of the images I've referred to are [from this](https://resources.realestate.co.jp/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/Typical-Kitchen.jpg), for the kitchen and bathroom placement, and [from this](http://i.imgur.com/8gAqB.jpg), if we're discussing the living room/sleeping area.
> 
> (2) I would like to argue that, while I exaggerate the walls are "paper-thin", it... isn't exactly like that. Yes, the walls are thin — but only severely loud noises carry through. You will read later that there's an instant where, in rare cases, some extremely loud noise _will_ actually disturb neighbours from other floors. Though usually, loud noises only go as far as disturbing your next-door or downstair neighbours. Average conversations, in this case, don't count as loud noise. Again, my only experience with thin walls are limited to a specific hotel I stayed at while vacationing in China when I was fourteen. I'm twenty-one year old now. Other experiences included me, suffering through loud party noises, 'cause my two-floors-up neighbour mustn't have closed their sliding door or were blasting their speaker way too loudly for it to be considerate.
> 
> With that, I won't keep you guys in the Author's note any longer, have the second chapter!

Going to class today have been difficult.

And it’s not mainly due to the, er, sore around my _back_ , (if you get what I mean, though, devastatingly, I quite hope you don’t) but because the familiar friend of homesickness have hit me hard when Nac have shut the door without even as much as a peck of goodbye.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Nac isn’t a terrible person. He’s not even… _closeted_ , I mean. A homosexual, that is. I’m pretty sure he’s admitted it several times that he was attracted to female and male, and, should he find a person who wishes to not be identified by either, he can be very well interested in that person too. I think that’s one of the few things that has made me so drawn to him when I first moved from my small countryside Jinae to Sina’s huge, exciting city.

I could still remember the first time I met Nac. It was roughly a month after I’ve moved to Sina, and I had been far lonelier during those days - if anybody could believe me. I would go to class, navigate myself through the city, met a couple of people and have a nice chat and figured that maybe this time, when I came home to an empty apartment, I wouldn’t be so sad to stare at the starless night sky that was so very different than Jinae. And often, as optimistic as I would try, that thought couldn’t keep the tears at bay.

Perhaps spending most of your life surrounded by your family and then suddenly being chunked to a foreign place can make a twenty-something adult like me bawl like a baby.

It wasn’t always hard nor that depressive. I was just… _slow_ at adapting to such a hectic and hasty life, I suppose. In the city, rarely anybody walked without a sense of purpose: they were always heading somewhere, always had an appointment to meet. Most of them were rude when they’re even slightly offended, or brash or too straightforward that it’s taken me a couple of times when I had to blink startledly rather than answer a person as honestly as I could. I knew most of it was probably in my head, but I couldn’t help feeling as though there was a social gap between the Kid From The Country and everybody else whom I knew.

Armin was one of the University’s Ambassador when I met him, which meant he was the one who had given a bunch of the new students and curious parents a tour of the campus once we’ve registered, but that title changed rather quickly when we turned to be friends instead.

“I’m planning to assist and study more on Cerebral Palsy, so I can help the children,” he’d beamed during one of our talks once I’ve discovered we were taking the same course — though he’s in his last semester rather than I, who had only begun then, and surprisingly was also juggling about one other degree. “Maybe it would be too hopeful to dream that we may cure them, but to think I can help in any way… It wouldn’t be too bad, would it?”

We bonded pretty well after that.

In any case, it was _Armin_ , really, who had introduced me to Nac. I guess for somebody who was as smart as he was, it wasn’t that difficult to sort out that perhaps the city life was beginning to lose its charms in my eyes and suddenly became a big lump of reality I’m struggling to swallow. He had invited me for a night-out where a group of friends were hanging out. I remember a few people were there: Mikasa, a close friend of Armin’s and somebody I’ve chatted quite a few times before whenever we bumped into one another, stood out as she usually does. A girl named Mina was there, as well. Tom, Mylius and, of course, Nac.

Not that I particularly noticed him.

It wasn’t until later, in the pretense of excusing myself to go to the bathroom, when I really had just escaped to a verandah to take a deep breath, that Nac had joined me. He’d cracked a lame joke, asked me how I was doing, then proceeded to draw smooth lines over my freckles when I complaint how Sina lacked stars during the night. And, oh, how shameful it is, don’t you think?

Nac, after connecting my freckles, had smirked — a quiet thing to have graced his lips — and shrugged, “Why look up when you have your own constellations all over your skin?”

It’s safe to say I quite don’t hate the city as much as I thought, especially when I had woken up to my wrist where Nac’s black-ink pen was still smearing a faint line against my tanned skin. I look down now and trace back to where it began, feeling nostalgic, as students from my left and right began to pack their books and head out. The lecture is over, and I should probably head back or grab a late lunch — just _something_ — instead of moping about… well, whatever it was that I was moping about.

Had I truly been upset about Nac leaving me this morning?

I’m being unfair. It wasn’t like Nac was purposely doing it. I still recall the way he’d hunched over and pressed his palms against his eyes when he blurted out about a past relationship that had hurt him, about the reason why he wasn’t willing to publicise whatever we were having after the third time he has come around to sleep with me. I remember crying for him, too, wrapping him in my arms before those sobs turned into sloppy kisses and lazy sex.

Nac had asked me to wait, to be patient — but quiet, _secretive_.

So I had no right to resent the coldness of his side of my small bed when he left me. 

Still, blame me as you may, I cannot help but feel a deep regret building itself like walls made of rock when I stared at where Nac had once lay, before he went away. Just one action from a man, and suddenly it hit me that the state of my room was too dark and I was alone. I hadn’t even dared to pick my phone up from where it’s hunched in my pants right by the foot of my bed, fearing that I would cry the first moment I would click on the faces of my parents and siblings and nieces.

I know it wasn’t Nac’s intention, but suddenly I felt no different than the man who was dragged to a party before I met the guy who called my freckles a piece of galaxy. 

I was lonely.

Still, I forced my body to be up and shower. I rummaged through my drawers for a few clean clothes while silently eavesdropping on a mocking banter between my neighbour and his cat (I assumed he was taking in the drying clothes, which was a surprise to me considering he hadn’t looked like a guy who enjoyed the typical chores). Still, I went to class. Sitting myself upright and looking bright while I took notes and greeted people I knew with a hello. Still, I’m taking slow steps right now across the campus through the Arts building in a silly hope that I might catch my not-boyfriend being absorbed in his art. I really like it when he’s drawing, or trying to tell his thoughts through lines or circles or shapes that would need me to gaze at it for hours — it feels like I’m drowning in whatever he has to offer, and being entranced by such a beautiful thing…

I sigh, partially out of my helplessness, and knows it would be close to no hope of me ever bumping into him. It wasn’t like he’d spare me more than just a glance. I think he doesn’t have any faith in me; I think he fear I’d suddenly leap into his arms somehow and tell the world that he’s been putting his dick in my ass since mid-September.

Which is… such a harsh way of wording it, but — well, it didn’t make it any less true.

Speaking of, er, _the_ _activity_ , I quite regret not having a more firmer behaviour this morning when he’d insisted on making it a “round three”. Not only it made me feel even emptier when he was picking back his clothes to make his exit, but it had left me aching and all-difficult to manage myself between the thirty minutes he gave me before I have to get to class.

I sigh again and wishes so desperately I’m not this… _lame_ . Maybe I should find Armin. Or Mikasa. Anybody, really, who I can just — be _myself_ who isn’t obsessed with this sadness that’s weighing in my chest. Maybe I should check out on a new movie. I knew people often described it as a sad thing, going to the movies on your own, but I am quite fond of the activity, even without a partner. It’s just like watching a big, gigantic TV. Everybody can do that even if they’re not with anybody else in particular.

“This is really cheesy.” 

I hear a girl giggle at the snarky remark, and turn my head to the side to watch a particularly petite red-head holding up papers which are… suspiciously shaped like hearts while a man on a ladder is trying to put them up. The man doesn’t seem so happy that he has to do the job. And, as if on cue with my narration, he sneers when he holds up a hand to accept another string-attached paper hearts. “Why do I have to do this? What the hell is _Franz_ so busy with?”

“Jean, you know he has to settle the post-production for his team’s latest film!” The girl replies enthusiastically, but not unkindly. If she’s fazed by the man’s seemingly rough tone, she doesn’t show it. Maybe she’s used to them.

“Yeah, yeah. _Excuses_. Thought you two would be lovey-dovey enough to manage best of both worlds.”

The girl turns scarlet in a heartbeat, and I smile kindly at that. I wonder how it feels: to be able to blush so openly about your affection for another person like that. I look down at my shoes, and calculate if I should keep walking now — just go home, _go anywhere_. Standing here wouldn’t make Nac suddenly show up holding his own batch of paper cut-outs in the shape of hearts spelling out my name.

Oh. Right. _Valentine’s_. Maybe that’s why the Arts students were busy decorating their building. 

I wonder foolishly if Nac might be doing a project or contribute anything too for Valentine’s — whether it be for me, or for the Arts department. It seems nice, that people can admire his work some more. That _I_ can. It’s no news that he’s talented. Surely me coming to gawk at it wouldn’t have placed me as odd when the next student would probably do the same.

It took me about ten-minutes in my walk later to realise that the man who was attaching paper-hearts to the ceiling and walls was my very _neighbour_ , Jean. How foolish I’d been. Mother were always confused as to why I hadn’t still been in a better term with my neighbours when in Jinae, it seemed like everybody had known everybody. It’s hard to explain to Mother that the city doesn't quite operate the same, not when Mother always dismisses those sort of excuse right before I could speak them aloud, and have only promised her that I tried.

Remembering upon it now, I feel guilty.

Jean… from what I remember of him, or from the times we’ve bumped or I’ve seen glimpses of him, seems… very solitary. His side of the apartment rarely have guests in it, if at all, and the only times sound would travel through the thin wall would probably be when he was forced into a phone call. But then again, maybe he _is_ the social butterfly kind of person. He had just never looked like it because perhaps he was being considerate with how much privacy do lack in this apartment?

Who would know? Certainly not me.

While I’ve been praised to be a good judge of character, I do quite dislike assuming things about people. Apart of me had wanted to just say it aloud that I had thought Jean was the kind of man who wouldn’t reach out to anybody unless situation urged him to, but maybe he’s this other different thing altogether than what little my mind have conjured him. He certainly… wasn’t really polite, though, if the little scene back at the Arts’ building were any indication, though the girl had seemed acquainted enough with Jean’s quirks that she wasn’t offended.

I envy their relationship, whatever they may have — to be so used with another person that you were to know when they were joking, or when they were not.

Evening comes soon when I feel asleep as soon as I galloped the cheap sushi I bought from a convenient store two blocks from my apartment. When I wake up, my apartment is darkening following the blueing sky outside, and I feel a little stupid for letting a bunch of paper hearts haunt my dream from the short nap I’ve taken. My mouth is sticky with the taste of raw salmon when I yawn, and I am not eager to invite Sina’s starless night once again into my view.

If I pick up my phone right now and dial my parents, would I cry?

I do pick up my phone in the end, only to stare at the screen where Nac hadn’t replied to any of my messages. I almost feel a little silly for hoping that he would. I figure since he had stayed overnight, he might miss my warmth besides him as much as I had missed his fingers trailing down the freckles down my collarbone.

A guitar strums, and I stare frozen not at my phone when I realise my neighbour — Jean — is singing.

“ _It's a long day livin’ in reseda… there's a freeway runnin’ through the yard and I'm a bad boy cause I don't even miss her. I’m a bad boy for breakin’ her heart… And I'm free... Free fallin’…_ ”

I wouldn’t say I’m rooted on the spot by the sheer amazingness that is Jean’s voice. In fact, I would argue that there wasn’t anything particularly outstanding by it. He had a nice singing voice, the kind where you wouldn’t be too displease if he starts humming a song, but you wouldn’t exactly advice him to start seeking a professional career out of it. Unless, of course, he wants to.

Jean’s voice… was just nice.

Nice enough, at least, that I’m leaning against the wall and wishes, somehow, that we’re friends instead. That I can be there next to him instead of the cold comfort of this small four walls and listen to him directly. A cat meows back to Jean’s attempt at mimicking John Mayer’s lyrics, and I smile at the image my head created.

“C’mon Morgana, get your own spotlight, dammit.”

I smile some more. The sun sinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was prepping this chapter to go, I've only just finished writing Chapter 8. I wanted to suggest, "Just a Kiss" by Lady Antebellum to get the mood of what I was hoping to portray, before dumbly realising that, at this point of the story, Jean and Marco barely knew each other. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the progress so far! Any notes and/or reviews of any kind, or even simple kudos really, would be appreciated and cherished :)
> 
> See all of you again in the next chapter, with us returning to Jean's POV.


	3. Jean, Like a Ro-Bodt

If anybody ever tells you being an “Arts” student is a leisure, deck them in the mouth and tell them to fuck themselves with a spiked baseball bat.

Don’t tell Maman I said that, though, because I know she would’ve given me hell for the kind of language I’m sporting. Not that she doesn’t already know. But still.

I wonder, briefly, how many times have she sighed into the air, rubbing the spot on the temple, and pray to God, a deity,  _ anybody _ , that I would somehow change for the better.

Not in a bad way, of course.

Like… in a way some parents would do ‘cause their kids didn’t live up to some expectations. Those kind of parents  _ suck _ . Maybe I’m lucky, to have held all of my excellent academic results, splay them to Maman, and told her I’m not interested in becoming a lawyer like I know my family have always expected me to, and watched as she hugged me with joyful tears. In another world, I would’ve gotten a slap. In another world, perhaps I would’ve gotten disowned. In another world, maybe considering a career to be an animator wouldn’t even be possible.

But my mother…

She made it easier. I knew I hadn’t been an easy child for her to raise, especially since Papa passed away, but she was willing to accept me for all that I was — no, for all that I  _ am _ .

Talking about it now makes it obvious that I am a mama’s boy. I would like to say I’m not ashamed from it, but, to tell you the truth, there are times where I wish I wasn’t. Not because I don’t love Maman! Only because it’s still embarrassing, I think, to still vigorously check if I’ve missed my mother’s call every time I’m done with a class or there’s an empty slot in my time where I’m not hunched over my back doing my assignments or commissions, or I’m not busying myself making sure I’m keeping my body alive.

Still, in spite of moments here-and-there where I don’t quite like to admit that I’m close to Maman, I do adore her. And, admittedly, I’ve come to depend a lot on the relationship I’ve built with my mother. I’ve said it before but I haven’t been an easy child to raise. However, once I’ve gotten over my immaturity and realises feeding into my childish temper wouldn’t get me particularly anywhere in life except more anger, I was quick to latch onto my mother. When I was lost and confused, she was always there to welcome me into her arms.

I could still remember that terrible night when I was twelve and, in fits of my anger, had ripped a picture of Papa, Maman and myself in it. It was still so bizarre, to think and remember it: how I had felt so much rage in my body,  _ so red in my face _ , and at the picture of my father slobbering a kiss against my pudgy cheek — now torn in half — has made every hateful determination in body dissolve like they’re ice quick to turn into water. The next thing I knew I was crying instead, thin body curling in on itself as I murmur apologies after apologies like it could mend what I’ve done.

It didn’t, but my mother silently puts her weight and warmth around me anyway. I, in return, clutched her like I was never grown from the rumours of the spoilt baby I was who would cry every time I was separated from her grasp.

In any case, my absolute close relationship with the only living relative I could stand aside, I so very wish I’m better at this whole —  _ personality _ thing. I know Maman always wants me to improve and, compared to how I was years ago, I would say I’m a completely different man, but, yes. Do deck the person who ever claimed “Arts” are an easy subject or course to pass and tell them to fuck themselves with a spiked baseball because I do mean it.

Thankfully, the one who has been harassing my sanity hasn’t been an assignment for a class. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I have the pressure of my grade hanging over my head as I try to add the perfect colour of pink in the poster. This is for a commission, by the way. People would pay me for my Photoshop or Illustrator skill which, if I have to be honest, is still so phenomenal to me because,  _ really? You like what I create _ ? Though that stigma dies soon enough because, by the end of the day, me having clients don’t necessarily mean I’ll be creating what I like and therefore, I may not always be able to enjoy the creative process. I’m just truly realising what my buyers want or have envisioned. And those aren’t always fun.

Not that I needed money  _ badly _ , but I had started the commission a while back to sort of pay for my old guitar getting a major repair and then it became kind of nice. To have earned your own pay.

_ Now _ , though. Now I wish I’d given myself a break. Or at least realizes earlier that I’ll be getting a pain-in-the-ass client who changes their mind every damn time I present them with their previous request of the poster. Good thing about mostly working behind a computer, however — you don’t necessarily have to meet the other person to get your job done. So, a lot of time when my creation are rejected and a new requests or tweaks are being submitted via emails, which is a  _ big _ means of communication between my buyer and myself, I can at least curse at them without having the risk of getting fired or having my reputation, no matter how small, tarnished and affected my future work.

So, I curse. But I’m also diligent as I try to correct and make sure the flaw is hidden. Damn, my tablet. I’ve been using this for a good four years but I guess no matter how expensive a device is, they’re still going to break down at one point, huh?

Thank god I don’t require to draw much or work on smaller details when it comes to my current project. Photographs are used a lot in return. I still need my tablet for classes, though. All of those models and files aren’t just going to be done by itself.

Tapping my finger against the table next to my laptop as the e-mail is sent with the finished product,  _ for the thirty-third time _ , I recall about the state of my newly ordered tablet. It’s supposed to be delivered within this week. Should I contact the website I’ve purchased it off and inquire about the wellbeing of my product? I should, but maybe I’m also being impatient. I’ve told the landlady that I’m counting on her to watch out for any new deliveries because  _ wow, is it expensive _ , and so far Miss Lynne haven’t betrayed my trust. Every package sent by my mother is safely kept until I return home.

_ Just calm down _ , I tell myself just as I hear the sound from my computer alarming me of a new e-mail. I don’t hesitate and click on it. Expectedly, there has been more request from my client suggesting I take out one of the model from the picture that I’ve spent time cropping, colouring, and editing just moments beforehand. However, my client also included a note of satisfaction regarding the rest of the colours and pattern.

_ A win _ , I tell myself direly, and quickly get back to work before my evening class begins.

Soon, it’s nightfall. I’m chewing a wrapped sandwich that I’m supposed to eat during lunch in between my teeth as I try not to fall asleep when I walk myself the same pavement I do up to my block. My cheap, thin-walled apartment. From here, I can see Mrs Rodriguez’s small garden hanging from her window sill and the small balcony. I smile remembering the many times I’ve chided Morgana whenever I catch her perching on the edge of the thin railing for fear she would fall. Cats have nine lives, yes that’s the saying, but I’m still terrified.

I can barely hang on to the present amount of friends — which, by the way, isn’t many — as is, to think I’ll risk losing another?

_ Speaking of _ — seeing her after this stressful day would help. Sure, the client had told me I did good and delivered the job exactly as he’s asked. The pay came too, just as he’s promised. But was it truly worth it? I sigh, climb up the stairs passing a bicycle I know belong to the high schooler who lives with his older sister, and finally to my door only to realise that there’s something sticking out from it.  _ A note _ , I realise, as I step closer, squinting in the darkening violet sky.

_ Your package came! Miss Lynne dropped it at 103 due to family emergencies. _

_ Huh _ , is the first thing I could think, eyes running over the looped handwriting that I genuinely thought only existed in period dramas. If I have had the energy to smile from the humour I think I can sense from this situation, I would have. But I don’t. I know it wouldn’t have felt right blaming Miss Lynne for abandoning her duty for an emergency but I’m  _ really _ not in the mood to pretend I’m friendly and accommodating to strangers. I mean, I could barely manage it on a day where I’m not struck by two three-hour-long classes and a difficult project in between, what’s gonna keep me from not basically asking for a free punch this very fine night with how rude I know I can be?

Still, it is a  _ very _ expensive tablet. And I have desperately needed it since a month back.

I make my way to Marco’s which, in reality, doesn’t sound as long as I’m dramatically making it to be, and, with a deep sigh, knock on his door. It takes a while — I had to knock repeatedly, twice, with a pause in between — before I hear a muffled ‘ _ Coming! _ ’ and the door opens. Marco must’ve just been in the bathroom, I conclude, because his face is prickled with not only his outstandingly smattering amount of freckles, but there are droplets of water too, dripped from the tip of his hair down to his cheeks.

Otherwise though, he’s decent. In a shirt I recognise is from one of the European Football teams with the collar still wet. Was he washing his face? I wonder what happened. I only wash my face when I’m sleepy. Maybe Marco’s the kind of guy who took care of his blemishes. I know, typically, toxic masculinity ruins the whole entire thing and leaves skin-caring to women, but personally, I’d be impressed if it  _ were _ true. That is, if Marco cares for his skin. Hell, maybe I need to start to add that in the list of things I continuously worry about regarding my health.

“Hey,” I find myself rasping, voluntarily taking a step back because —  _ woah _ , I know I’m here because I  _ need _ something, but Marco’s larger frame really is…  _ a lot _ . Especially in near proximity. I don’t do well with people just coming near my personal boundaries, even if they didn’t mean it or hadn’t anticipated it like Marco must have not.

Marco also straightens his back and doesn’t do the thing where his head is thrust forward, as though mirroring my need for space, and smiles. “Oh, hi.” Hi.  _ Hi _ . Who even  _ says _ that anymore? It’s so —  _ traditional _ . Traditional? Or maybe because I haven’t been speaking to any new person lately without it having something to do with any assignment or work. Though, then again, this still has a connection to my work. A very expensive tablet, remember? Whatever. Why bother with the semantics when this whole meeting is pretty straightforward? “You must be here because of Miss Lynne—”

“She dropped a package?” I interrupt, not because I was rude — though I would’ve understood if it came out that way — but, even through my tiredness, I’m eager. Calibrating it to match my computer is probably going to take a while, but who the hell cares. I can draw again without wanting to strangle the equipment that should help me finish my job in the process. I’ll call that something to definitely look forward to.

Plus, it’ll be so shiny and it’ll smell  _ so new _ —

In any case, Marco doesn’t look perturbed that I had cut him off. In fact, eyes a little wide that I did, he smiles right after. One word:  _ soft _ . I typically don’t like putting those sort of labels on people because I don’t think it make sense, but coming from Marco somehow, with how his brown eyes kind of melt and the upturn of his lips grow genuine at the rush of my reply, that’s the only adjective my brain would care to think of.

“Yup. It’s, uh—” And then he goes in, which leaves the door to slowly close itself behind him, and I reflexively (though I must admit I panicked a little at the sight of him quickly abandoning me in the hallway, potentially trapping my very expensive package from me) reach my hand out to stop it from going all the way in.

From where I have to step forward so I’m able to continuously hold the door open, I can see shoe racks and boxes lining up the walls where the entryway is.

Suddenly, as though seeing what I already saw didn’t seem enough, Marco retches the door open. I nearly stumble forward — thankfully, I didn’t, because I’m sure I’ve reached my quota of embarrassing myself for the day, thanks — and my gaze couldn’t help but to gaze to behind his shoulders into the apartment. Similar like mine, I can spot that it’s small. Except it isn’t as clustered with shelves that I have to specifically yell at Morgana from climbing up; ones that I put all of my books away, from arts to history to whatever else catch my fancy, and small action figures as well as snow globes Connie and Sasha would always sent me. He also doesn’t have chairs with clothes or jackets thrown over it. Something I’m rather expert at, no matter how efficient I’ve been doing my laundries lately.

In fact, Marco’s place had looked a little… bare. There’s a bed there, I can see, right up against the wall which explains all of the  _ noises— _

“This is for you?”

I instantly feel like a pervert. I know there isn’t any reason to honestly assume so about myself, but I can feel the heat rising up to my cheek like I was caught doing something I  _ really _ shouldn’t have. I turn to look at the box Marco is now cradling kind of protectively in front of him, for me. I don’t know why that image made me feel even more ashamed about what I did, but I do.

Here he is, being kind enough to hold on to some stranger’s thing for a favour, and I— god. I don’t know what I’m doing. Suddenly, it dawned to me like bricks falling into places in my bones: I’m exhausted.

“Uh - yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

I take the offered box and begins inspecting the sealed company name, making sure. The longer I stand there, the longer I can feel Marco’s apartment radiating warmth. 

“You’re, uh…  _ Jean _ , right?” I look up to see Marco’s big, brown eyes blinking hopefully back at me. And even concerned — like he’s afraid he’d gotten my name wrong. He didn’t. It’s the second time, my brain duly notes, that he’d said my name. Yet, he’s said it correctly. I think my brain is signalling me to react properly, but the rest of my body only refuses to cooperate. I just hum, a low nearly growl-like thing to come out from the centre of my chest until it vibrates through my throat, and Marco  _ beams _ .

“I don’t know if we’ve introduced ourselves before but I’m—”

“Marco.” I supply.  _ Marco Bodt _ . Or, at least, that was what was inked on one of the boxes when I was trying to hiss Morgana to come back to the apartment from bothering the next-door neighbour. I could still remember it because I had made a lame joke about how it could be rhymed with  _ Robot _ , Marco’s last name. And how could it would be, if there’s a sci-fi movie about it. I don’t say any of these aloud, of course. I still have  _ some _ of my sanity left. “We did. Uhh — when you moved in?”

“Oh!” Marco replies, looking astounded by the answer. Had he forgotten? “Oh. Right.”

Shit.  _ Shit _ . I knew this was gonna happen. I should probably say goodbye now when I still have the time. Leave, so neither of us have to suffer through the prolonged awkwardness any longer. Just say thank you, Jean Kirstein. Come on, you can do it. Open that mouth, mouth into that word that begins with ‘T’—

“Have you eaten?”

_ What? _

Somehow, I must’ve said it aloud, because Marco, who now doesn’t look as calm and bright and — er,  _ soft _ — as he was before is just exuding a certain kind of nervousness that I know all too well. He scratches a hand behind his back, and I catch a glimpse of how his freckles really smattering right up to his elbows. It’s ridiculous. “Uh, I asked if you — ate? Dinner? I mean. If you haven’t, and since we’re neighbours anyway, I … I might have made a little bit too much meatloaf. I’d be happy to, uh — you could join in? For dinner, I meant. Yeah,  _ ahaha _ .”

Woah, okay. A generous neighbour, huh? What’s your move now, Kirstein?

“Oh, that - that’s okay.” I find myself responding and immediately, I kid you not,  _ immediately _ , Marco’s face falls. I physically have to revert my gaze to the package I know I’ll drool over as soon as I wake up tomorrow to open them, because that isn’t the face I was ready to face. “I uh — I had a full day, so —”

“Right.”

“I’m just gonna tune in. Catch some z’s.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, though.”

“Yeah, of course.” Marco smiles, but — I note on how it doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. I hate feeling bad over this. I’m not going to lie: meatloaf sounds amazing. But I’ve had my dinner, no matter how little and tasteless it was, the sandwich I bought because the store has ran out of onigiri, and I’m pretty sure I’ll pass out as soon as my ass land on the floor. I just couldn’t risk Marco having have to take care of me when it comes to that. How will I explain myself when I wake up?  _ Oh, hey dude, sorry for sleeping on you when you want me to eat your meat _ . Yeah, that’ll be weird. “No problem.”

“Maybe next time.” I say in an attempt to be polite, but I think it just comes out insincere.

And there he goes again, the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. That’s too bad. The lighting’s here shit with the corridor of this expressively cheap apartment that I’m actively sharing with about at least thirty other occupants, but I have a feeling that the brown of Marco’s eyes aren’t supposed to be that sullen. Until, pair of thick eyebrows hitched up, and Marco says, “Um — hold on.”

Marco disappear behind his door. I’m left confused and partly scared that he’ll come back with a weapon for offending him and not accepting his generous offer. Or maybe I’ve been buying into Franz’s latest obsession with thriller movies. He kept talking about script ideas for his final project next semester and Hannah is precious enough to not curb that interest.  _ Ah, couples _ . How joyous for them and disastrous it is for me.

“Sorry, just. You’re still here. Good. Take this.”

In Marco’s hand is a small box. But a thin one, because I can see the edges of the cardboard is ruined by a wetness that’s dried. My package balance under one arm, I don’t really have much space except to offer my palm. Closer now, I can see it’s a box containing tea bags. Odd.

“It’s not — poisonous.” Marco lets out a nervous laughter. Not convincing. He must’ve noticed my suspicion, because he quickly launches into an explanation, “It’s good for fatigue. It’s from my hometown, Jinae. I know we’re, uh — not well acquantained yet, Jean, but… I promise you. This tea will do you wonders.”

This time when Marco smiles at me, there’s more warmth to it. More sincerity. 

Better, I think, than it was only a minute ago when I first rejected his kind offer for a dinner. I sigh.  _ Fine _ . If this’ll cheer him up, why not? Maman’s always been talking me into making healthier choices regarding my drinks anyway. Coffees and beers are my first suspects when my sharp looks that I don’t deem too ugly on my features finally go away with age. Awkwardly, I press my mouth into a thin smile, and nod my head.

“Alright, thanks.”

And that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Nothing says a title like Jean's lame attempt at making a joke (thankfully, just in his head), huh? In any case, I find it entertaining because it sort of reflects the state of their interaction currently, which, you know - isn't great. It'll get there though, I promise! There are still so many hurdles ahead, but they'll get there.
> 
> ii. On another hand, Jean's European background — considering SNK has been heavily hinted to originate among the population and to have followed their primary custom — is, _as many of you may have guessed!_ , of French descent. That is, to be accurate: German-French, since his father was from a German family. I'm not certain if there's already a hint, buuuuut I wonder if you guys can pinpoint from which European background I've written Marco's for!
> 
> iii. I know the fandom isn't as thriving, however! It'll still be really cool if you guys can drop some kudos and/or comments as you're reading along! It's really more for me to flatter myself, I'm aware, but I honestly would feel absolutely hyped if I know that the story so far is interesting or otherwise. Of course, the option to _not_ do any of that is still available. In the end, I sincerely am just glad this story is out there at all after years of being cooped up in my Google Doc!
> 
> iv. [Dancing On My Own](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YakxHJA3YQg) by Robin (cover by Alice Kristensen), man. This song's gonna come up again at some point for Angst Point and even I, the author, am not ready for it.


	4. Marco, Heartbroken a Guide by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco finally meets Morgana, the meeting you didn't know you need, but here you go anyways.

I wake up sluggish. 

Again, another morning to face another lonely day. Though at least, I suppose, day is better than the silence of the night. The longer I am alone in these four walls of my dreary apartment — which, honestly, hadn’t looked this sad when I first moved in, I _swear_ — the longer I fear the shadows that the moon would create upon its appearances. My room, as I sit up, is a mess.

Gosh, if mother were here, she’d whack me upside down with a broom before she threatens to add to my chores if I don’t do something with the way I’ve thrown my pants and shirts aside and all over the floor.

How I still had the energy to reach over where I’ve plugged my phone with a cord to the wall, I have no idea, considering I’m losing every motivation I have the longer I’m in this city. However, quickly, my dissipating energy rejuvenates into its full capacity. My eyes are wide with excitement, and I spend less than a second swiping right at the new notification that came in.

_2 New Messages from Nac Tius_

Nac isn’t like me. I’m not sure if its a city thing or the arts students thing, but he kept his messages clear and short and very rarely mass texts. I would like to argue I am not like that, because while I don’t prefer double texting like how I’ve noticed a lot of my peers do, I am not shy with words. I am capable of giving out paragraphs about even the mundane things!

It is only when I see Nac’s sophisticated texts that I try to keep my own replies short and easy for him to read so that he may reply to me sooner. Once, when we were bundled up together and he was scrolling down his phone, I saw him actually saving some of the messages I sent him. He didn’t encourage me asking further question, but I could feel his blush warming up to his shoulders.

In any case, Nac has sent me an apology for not keeping in touch and alerted me that he wanted to come over tonight.

My heart soars!

_Yeah! You could come by anytime after 7? My class should by 5, but I think I need to stop my the store for some food! Am running short on it lately…_

With a Guilty Look Emoji, I sent my message and quickly got up from my bed to start my day. Just like that, it is as if I hadn’t known the dreaded feeling that I was clouded with when I first rose to my consciousness. I make up the portion of where I have slept, not so soundly I admit, and began picking up clothes from the floor and chairs. Right. I might also need to do laundry. My first class isn’t until two hours from now, can I make it in time?

Speaking of, I make my way to the small verandah where I’ve been drying out some of my underwear. _That_ at least I haven’t been neglecting to wash in due time. Picking the five that I’ve put to dry and a few socks, it isn’t until when I narrowly almost dropped a particularly embarrassing brief two floors down that I realise I have a spectator.

Two large pale yellow eyes are looking at me.

“Meow,” she mewls, tilting her head to one side like she’s curious of my activity. I recognise her. She is a cat kept by Jean, my neighbour. As far as I was concerned, the flats didn’t allow pets, so I had wondered how Jean had managed to convince the landlady. I have suspicions that she didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to be the one to file the complaint.

Plus, besides from the light bickering here and there, the cat isn’t at all a nuisance. It barely made a sound nor have I ever heard complaints from Jean aloud about her tearing the place in his absence.

My sister’s cat would ruin the whole pillow she’s got on her sofa if she as much looked away even for five seconds.

In any case, with her staring at me, I begin to wonder if Jean is in the next room. Or should I say _house_? Though at this point and with how thin the walls are typically, my head couldn’t help but to categorise it as being the former than latter. I give a sheepish smile, my brain racking to see if I can remember the name I can hear Jean would call his pet by, and try, “Well, good morning to you.”

“Meow,” Jean’s precious pet echoes back, seemingly ecstatic that I’m making conversation. I can’t help beaming back, feeling a little silly but also - quite amused.

She is truly nothing like Jean. Aside from her darker fur in contrast to her owner’s lighter shades of hair, she seems friendly and bright eyed. There’s still an air of stubbornness to her, though; like a spoilt brat expecting every demand to be commanded. I have a faded longing of my younger cousins back home that have always wanted to be adored and my chest squeeze.

“I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Marco.” I say courteously, knowing I may look silly from the outside or, really, to people who have never owned any pets when I’m openly conversing myself with them like this.

In my defense though, I don’t think it’s silly at all. Back in Jinae, there are every bunch of animals you could think of. Farm animals, of course. Not that we were much of a farming community. Wait, _are_ _we?_ Now, I’m not quite sure. Though yes, we’re pretty far on the countryside. There are no buildings packed together, not if you went into the town, where we have the only Tesco around along with the only existing McDonalds. There are mostly long roads, and open fields. Ah, now that I think about it, I think Grandpops did say something about Jinae being one of the country’s most-produced fruit exports sort of state. A lot of the lands that were owned by the neighbours have our own fundings and everything!

Or perhaps I’m just getting carried away in my homesickness. Maybe if I’ve got the time I’ll google it to confirm better. Of course, not that I’ll have anybody to truly tell it to. Nac had seemed interested enough to ask about my parents and siblings when he was in the mood. Mostly though, he’s more concerned in ensuring I’ve got my pants down and condoms ready the entirety we’re together. I try not to put anything against him due to it. _We’re not dating_ , I have to remind myself. And people who are not dating… they don’t really have to be so intimate with each other, right?

Regardless, back to the subject, while my parents were more the type to tend to gardens, my grandparents are sturdy enough to raise chickens in the backyard. My family also have a few breeds of dogs running around on our land. I think we’ve got a few cows as well, back when I was very little, since we own a barn that are now mostly kept as Mother’s modified greenhouse. I could still remember my middle school days when, after my eldest brother graduated, I had to take over the morning duties to feed the chickens. I wasn’t very thrilled about it. Looking back on it now, it’s reasonable that I wasn’t. What twelve year old would be appreciated to be woken up as early as five AM? But… it brings a smile to me now.

The image of me cycling to my grandparents’ house, how I would invite myself in, and sit there, half-asleep, at the steps leading to where the coops are, as dawn colours the dark sky brighter — it’s funny. Some days I would actually fall asleep and nearly gave my Grandma a heart attack when she walked down the stairs to find me lying there, eyes-closed, mouth hanging open, as I continue to softly snore. I remember eventually growing comfortable to the routine. I would call out to the chickens like they were my friends. A lot of kids around my age would do the same. Not specifically to chickens, though. I meant that they would converse with their respective animals kindly whether those would be horses, or their own dogs, or cats, or even pet fishes.

So, yes. Silly, maybe, to the people who don’t understand. But there I go anyway, introducing myself far better to a cat than I would to an actual human being.

The grey-coloured cat doesn’t look amiss at my self-introduction. In fact, her large eyes stay on me curiously, as if wanting a far detailed explanation right after my name. I chuckle a little, not being able to help note that she’s certainly different from her owner that way. Jean is — not a bad guy, I think. Not very friendly, either, based on my interactions with him so far. Tall, though. Handsome. On a scale of our beauty standard, I’m sure he can get by pretty well if he knows how to play his cards right with all of the ... _er_ , flirtation game. Though, again, I notice that he hadn’t brought up anybody — not once — to his apartment. If he does, _I_ certainly hadn’t noticed it. Not that I _want_ to. Because this isn’t like Jinae. You just can’t be _that_ nosy with your neighbours, and expect you won’t get cuss from it. In fact, I’m a bit relieved that I _wasn’t_ cursed from that night when I held onto the package.

To tell you the truth, as much as I felt a sense of accomplishment being able to help out our landlady and Jean, it certainly wasn’t very much a pleasant affair on my end. Prior to it, whatever conversation I had with my neighbour felt stunted and forced. Jean probably didn’t mean it, but I hadn’t felt all that secure to attempt it again. Then, it happened _and—_ it’s nice to know, at least. That Jean had remembered my name even though I’ve had it in my mind to categorise him so easily into being one of those city people who carelessly forgets things that don't matter to them.

 _Marco._ He had said, sounding tired. _We did. When you, uh, moved in?_

But he didn’t. He didn’t forget. I beam a little at the reminder. So, yes, I figure. Not bad of a guy, at all. A little grumpy, maybe. And busy, it seems, if the bags under his eyes and those sunken cheeks he’s sported the other day when he stood there in front of my door are any indication. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to stand at the edge, Kitty. You might fall. And we don’t want that, do we?” I say some more once I pick up the last of my things and drop them into the basket to fold them collectively later.

“ _Meow_ ,” The feline responds good-naturedly and hops down. It must be well-trained then. I wonder momentarily if Jean’s a good owner. Based on how well-treated the cat looks, I don’t have doubts that he is. 

“Alright. Nice talking to you. I’m going in now, alright?” The cat meows me back one last time before I trudge right in. I place my faith that nothing will happen to it since there hasn’t been any accidents so far and decide to trade my time folding my clothes to take up a nice shower instead. Afterwards, while waiting for my hair to dry, I can fold all of the laundry that I’ve actually done. Later, I can reorganise a little of my place so it won’t look _as_ messy, go to class, go to the market to buy all of the stuff, head back home and… My cheeks blush at the thought.

 _Ah, it’s been weeks, hasn’t it? Two? Almost three?_ I miss him.

When I step out of the shower, I realise I haven’t actually locked my sliding door completely. I had wanted to air out the living room as best as I could. Perhaps now it wasn’t such a good idea because I can hear a voice speaking rapidly in a language I don’t understand. _Jean_ , I recognise immediately, the towel I’ve got goes to my head as I try to rub thoroughly at the wet strands of my black hair. I hope I smell incredible. Maybe I’ll consider showering again just before Nac comes.

“ConSash are doing fine,” I hear Jean grumble as soon as I fish out a pair of pants and slide my legs in. He proceeds to continue the next few sentences in that foreign language again. _French_ , I think. It’s nice. Now that I have time to think it through, isn’t Jean’s name quite classic? He’s French, after all. And he knows two languages. My grandparents have religiously tried to teach me Italian when I was smaller, but aside from the common phrases and sentences, I’m afraid no dice. Thankfully, I can still understand Italian pretty well.

“Oui, oui.” Jean seems passionate in his reply. I’m curious what exactly is he conversing about on the phone. Still, I don’t poke my head out to ask. I let the sliding door stay open, sit myself near my well-made bed, and begin to fold my underwear and boxers away. There are a few white undershirts that I managed to wash. Nice, me. I wasn’t _that_ lazy, after all, huh?

“Oui. I know. Love you, Maman.” I hear a long suffering sigh. Then, a small thud. Maybe Jean was putting his phone away. Was he the kind that tossed his electrical device as if they’ve cost five dollars instead of whatever hundred and thousands they’re priced now? He looks like he might be. I snicker at that image. Here I am, easily could have made him my friend, and thus, not having to put myself in the position where I would guess what kind of person he might be but… I sort of screwed that up, didn’t I? _Come on, Marco. You barely knew the man, and you offered him dinner?_ He must’ve been suspicious of my character. 

“What? Don’t look at me like that.” I hear Jean snides. Talking to his cat, maybe. I smile at that image.

“Hey, I’m sorry too, okay? It’s just— Franz and Hannah cornered me! Not that I don’t feed you at all, you lil’ spoilt monster.” A pause. Then, another loud sigh. “I swear, Morgana, I’m gonna find the time soon to buy you more of your food, okay? For now, we have to ration it—ow, don’t come at my face!” A thud. I hear the familiar sound of meowing that must’ve been Jean’s cat — Morgana, was it? — respond. 

“You’re just sitting on my face on purpose now. I hate you.”

I smile.

Nine hours later, it’s seven PM. I’ve showered, even cooked something light, and have beers and wine stored, waiting for Nac’s arrival. I try not to imitate those cliche sort of tropes where the girl lies around giggling and clutching their blankets when they wait for their love interest to show up, but… I certainly feel like it. I’ve operated most of today purely for these few hours I’ll be spending with Nac. I wonder what kind of conversations will we be talking about today. Nac isn’t the kind to complain often, but it just means that whenever he does, I feel fortunate enough knowing that he trusted me with a few bad opinions. The last time he was here, before he had me riled up and needy under him, I can still remember us talking about his latest project that’s to do with a Go Green foundation. He’d been complaining about an idea of him that was dismissed by the corporates, and I have somehow successfully lightened the mood up with a joke.

I can still remember the line deepened around his mouth when he smiled at me. “You always make me feel better, you know that?” He’d told me, before pulling me in to nibble at my lower lip.

I croon at the memory, feeling tingly all over.

But then, seven turned to eight. Eight turned to nine PM. I’ve called Nac five times now, trying not to sound concern, but I am. I run my fingers through my hair. So much for wanting to look my best. The food I’ve cooked have grown cold, and I feel restless, chewing onto my fingers in a way that I could hear my elder sister would call out on. My mother would be mad at me if she found out. Did the room grow colder?

Suddenly, my phone buzzes.

 _Received: 9:23 PM  
_ _Sorry. There's people comin by from the indstry. Suppose 2 mingle for connections. U kno how it is. I’ll come by some other time._

I feel my throat tightens. I’m not sure how a throat really tightens, if I have to be honest, but that’s how I feel anyway. As if no air is truly coming in to resurrect my lungs for the severely needed oxygen. I think my reflex has wanted me to fling my phone right against the wall for getting my hopes up, but instead, I click that tiny button by the side to blacken my screen. I’m so hungry, I think. Or, I was. I hadn’t eaten much past one nibble of the lasagna that I’ve cooked to make sure I’ve got the ingredients as I remember my sister taught me, but… 

I had wanted to share it with Nac. I wanted him to tell me what he thought of my cooking.

 _Stupid_ . I reprimand myself. _I’m so stupid_.

I’m hungry, my stomach is growling, but there is nothing inside of me that feels like it wants to eat. I want to crawl into my bed, cry my eyes out, and hope tomorrow never comes. I hope I’m back in my room in Jinae, with the worn poster of NSYNC from when my brother was obsessed with them had put it up, staring right at me when I open my eyes. I have a window there that oversee my whole backyard. On Saturday, my brother would drive his wife and kids up to our house and my nieces would wake me up far more efficiently than any of my parents had. I want to hear my sister nag at me in the morning whenever I wake up just a bit later than I should, only for my father to distract her with whatever he reads in the newspaper today. I—

_Knock! Knock!_

I furrow my brow, sniffle, but I don’t really move from my position where I’ve sat on the floor, staring at the door. For a second, my heart leaps. _Could it be…?_ Then, a note slides the gap there. Still, I don’t do anything. I watch whatever shadow from the other side moves away when the note is safely inside, slightly crumpled from the effort as it may be, and only then did I move a muscle. First, to check the time on my phone only to realise I’ve been gawking at nothing for the past fifteen minutes. I notice there are a few messages from Nac and one e-mail from a senior I knew, Bert, but I ignore it all. I truly have no energy left. I just throw it aside once more, now truly contemplating if I should bury myself on my bed and never come out.

I didn’t. I go to the door. I pick the note up. Maybe it’s the landlady. She wanted to evacuate me for spreading my depression all over this building, probably. She was just being polite and thought she shouldn’t bother talking to me about it in person since it’s late. I’m wrong, of course. It’s not from the landlady. Though that isn’t the most shocking part.

_I saw you bought Morgana her cat food. You must’ve heard it over this morning, huh? You didn’t have to. Thank you, regardless. Morgana really appreciated it. I hope these coupons are okay. I got it in a vegan street fair. I didn’t know what else to give._

__\- Jean__

With paperclips, I peel away two coupons for… _a herb store?_ I let the fact sink in for a moment. Was this because I gave him a bag of tea? I feel a chuckle burst its way out of my throat. So that qualifies me for “The Veggie Guy” in Jean’s opinion? I smile in spite of my mood, in actuality, worsening. _Herb Store,_ I read the coupon again, chuckling lightly under my breath as I bow my head towards the floor. Of course, quickly, that turns into me sobbing behind my front door very miserably. Still, once I calm down, the coupons are tucked away safely. Maybe I’ll find a reason one day and check the store out. For now though, I put my lasagna into the microwave and heat them up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue _Ocean Eyes_ by Billie Ellish.
> 
> Though, in all honesty, I'm not very certain what colours Nac Tius' eyes are, say the author who's extensively writing a romance heavily involving this particular character. In any case, I know the story is slowing down for a bit even though (I know!) our two fave characters have just met a chapter earlier and, logically, should have the story picked up for now. But! _I promise you the slow burn will be worth it_. Potentially. Maybe. Cause I certainly have good store for these two once they get going!
> 
> Also, to add, and to clear any confusion, (though it may contain just a tiny bit of spoiler, so beware!) my story will _not_ contain any elements of physical cheating. That is, there will be no secondary romantic nor sexual relationship happening whilst one of our character(s) are already in a relationship of the nature with another person, no matter how terribly draining that initial relationship is. I won't deny Feelings(tm) don't emerge, but I just... am not about dat life, you know? So, no. I'm not portraying that here.
> 
> Well, well. I've rambled enough, I think, for this chapter. As always, leaving a comment or kudos would be soooo appreciated! I would really love to hear what you think! 
> 
> Thank you so much and see you all in the next chapter :)


	5. Jean, Thinking of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean's getting distracted, but not because of the usual reason he would be.

The first month I moved here, I discovered that the traditional kettle Maman insisted me having wouldn’t work. One of the occupants in the apartment knocked on my door one day to tell me that, because of the loud whistling my kettle would make when it’s successfully boiled the water, it had in return woken up a toddler of hers. She had few children, both still in their primary years, and having a baby whose sleep schedule were interrupted due to a college student’s need for coffee was just not helping her. Embarrassed, I immediately apologised and promised that I’ll see to it that the occasion wouldn’t repeat anymore. I’m short tempered. Some may argue I’m even typically rude. However, I don’t think of myself cruel.

Of course, the next few months navigating without constant coffee had really tested out just how far I would go before I would either succumb to a nap or my temper. 

Eventually, Maman found out about it. She immediately gifted me with an electric kettle and had taken home the traditional one. “ _ It was too large for your small kitchen, anyway _ .” She had told me in French, stubborn, as I tried arguing with her to give me the damn half-blackened kettle so that she didn’t have to carry it all the way to the taxi that’s been waiting for her.

In any case, I’m not very sure why I brought this up. Perhaps I wanted to point out to two obvious things: firstly, my electric kettle has been an active device used in my apartment, lately. 

Nearly every day I heat it up so I can make use of Marco’s tea. I have to say. He was right. His tea really did me wonders. Yeah, sure, bulge those accusing eyes at me, I’ll admit it: so, I didn’t really trust this sketchy freckled guy, even though I know he must’ve meant well — ‘cause, honestly, even though I said that, I truly think Marco’s a genuinely generous dude; again, I’ll make it known that I have a knack for being dramatic — when he handed me this random teabags. I’ve got a thing with salesmen who’re trying to “promote” all of these green stuff, okay? I do acknowledge that most must be good for you. Going all natural and what not. There are scientific studies and results to back those up.

I just was never fond of the propaganda that came with it.

All of those lifestyle that people are trying to impose on you. Geesh, shut up already. When I was fourteen, I remember, there was this stupid woman who convinced Maman that none of her medicines are gonna fend off the coughs that she just never seemed to get rid of. I told her repetitively that that’s bullshit. Did this woman went through five-plus year of medical school and have got an approved and professional certificate to be giving out advice regarding someone’s health state? No. But  _ clearly _ because she’s introducing all of these natural elements to the pills she’s selling or whatever, she must be legitimate. And oh! Did she also brought brochures to back up her scam? Amazing.

Thankfully that phase ended soon enough. It wasn’t for any good reasons though, unfortunately. Papa fell sick, and Maman was cornered into having no other option but to trust modern medicine again.

Point is, I have a very biased opinion on these sort of matter. Which is why I didn’t immediately wake up the next day eager to test out my kind neighbour’s recommended tea. In fact, I sort of have forgotten about it until about a week later. At first, it was just a very delicious tea. That’s the reason I kept drinking it. That, and the fact that I needed a reason to use up the lemons I bought because I was tempted by the discount that they were having at the supermarket. Then, about a week after that, I do see some of the changes. Even Hannah has hinted that I don’t yawn as much when she’s hanging out with me.

I feel more vigilant, yet relaxed at the same time. Well, as relaxed as one can be when you’re progressively stressed about midterms approaching in just a few weeks. I don’t get tired as easily, either. 

I’m on top of it, though. I’ve had at least two assignments done out of seven subjects, and I’m working to complete my third. Speaking of, that’s what I’m doing right now, with Marco’s tea in a cup that ConSash has gotten me during one of their trips to Istanbul. Or was it Turkey? I just know they’d posted it to me the first time they caught on that I’ve adopted Morgana. Sasha had cooed about not knowing I was an animal person. I had embarrassed responded that the incident involving that very vicious monkey coming after me happened  _ once _ , and there is no need to judge my future interactions with any sort of animal based on one severely traumatic experience, thanks!

She had just laughed away at me because of that.

But yeah, they both got me this mug that shaped like a deformed cat ‘cause the body looks like it’s hunched into the cup shape, while the large tail curled outside to form the handle. I’m not quite sure how to explain it properly, though the colour is pleasant. Nothing too striking. I bet Sasha had wanted it bright pink or orange, but I’m glad Connie stopped her. That’s what they told me anyway, over one of our Facetime calls, when they wanted to make sure I received it.

Morgana is lying near the sliding door to the verandah on her back, her belly up. She isn’t always this shameless. For a former street cat, she  _ sure _ is quite poise, now that I’ve thoroughly observed her. She must feel extremely lazy today, and the sun shining down on us looks good. I’m even tempted to scrawl over and nap along with her. I don’t, though. I have my tea with me. My new tablet shining and ready to use. My laptop open and fully charged. I’ve even silenced my phone to make sure I won’t get distracted.

Now, if only my nextdoor neighbour will stop arguing.

Which brings me to my second point of the whole kettle introduction: I’m surprised the voices that could carry through these thin walls haven’t alarmed my other neighbours into voicing back that they might be too loud. Of course, it wasn’t that Marco and Nac were screaming. They were only speaking harshly and snappishly. I’m surprised Morgana isn’t disturbed by the tension next door. The sun must be infinitely good on her right about now if she’s truly turning one blind eye about the whole thing.

I could also just plug in my earphones too.

I feel like this is too intimate for me to eavesdrop on. Somehow though, I must’ve inherited Maman’s need to be nosy, even just slightly, because I’m sipping my tea right now just as I hear Marco saying something about  _ being too tired to hide _ . So, it wasn’t his decision, then. It was Nac’s, to keep the whole thing quiet. No wonder why there wasn’t instances where I’d find Nac and Marco side-by-side outside of this apartment. Or hear them doing more than just their sexual intercourse over the wall. Nac didn’t want a full-formed relationship. And it turned to not be a mutual, two-way thing.

Knew it. Son of a bitch.

I mean, yeah, call me bias. I’ve never liked that Nac dude to begin with, but… I still remember the night I came home to a packet of cat food by my door. There was a sticky note stuck to it with a handwriting that I couldn’t distinguish as being anybody else’s but it belonging to Marco’s. 

_ Sorry! I hope this isn’t too weird. You can always just throw it away if it is, though. Just thought your cat might like it.  
_ __ \- Marco :) _ _

It’s, well, a little creepy admittedly. I’m not about to deny that. I mean, who just goes up and buy other people’s cat food just because, what, he must’ve overheard me setting up a failing contract with my devilish cat? But then, once I get over the shock, and had checked the pack of cat food in my hand, I just feel a little bad instead. I had told Morgana she’s lucky that she’s got someone so easily wrapped around her finger even though I was positive they’ve never met. The cat food Marco bought was the expensive kind.

I had thanked Marco then, thinking that he hadn’t had to go out of his way, and yet he did. Hence, I’ve concluded that, you know, maybe Marco isn’t such a bad guy.

No, scratch that. Next to Nac? He seems like an angel. 

Which begs the question, why the hell is he with Nac anyway? If anybody’s saying “Opposite Attract”, I’m about to put my foot down and declare that that’s bullshit. That stupid trope only works if both the partners are equally good for each other in spite of their differences. It wasn’t meant to be put in a way that allows one of the people in the relationship to treat the other like an ass and can get away with it.

Damn, now I’m getting worked up about this. I don’t want to be. Marco’s affair with Nac should strictly stay as his. If I were having a bad time with anybody, I sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate other people nosing in. Still, I feel bad. Aside from Hitch and that one girl I’ve taken to the school dance, I know next to nothing for a romantic relationship. All I know is that, if you’re not having fun, and if you’re not feeling secure about it, not even to discuss about your problems together, then maybe you shouldn’t be in that relationship in the first. I certainly learned it the hard way when I was with Hitch.

I hope Marco’s having fun.

At the very least, I hope, whenever Nac stays over, it’s fun for him while it lasts. The moans and the thumping of movements may suggest that he is, but… I know too, how that couldn’t be true. As if sensing my concern, Morgana comes and decides to curl by the side of my thigh instead. I pat her body, thinking about that article I read once on how petting your pet is, in a way, a stress-reliever. When the door shuts from Marco’s bedroom, and I can hear the sliding door shuts as well, I can feel my chest rumbling with — with something. Discomfort, maybe. A leftover sadness from when the silence finally returns to the atmosphere.

After a bad day, I have Morgana. I have Maman.  _ Marco… _

Morgana mews, and I look down to her, brows knitting together.

“Yeah,” I say sadly, but knowing I couldn’t do anything about it. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is more of a filler chapter than anything, but I would like to give an insight regarding an outsider's point of view of how Marco's relationship with Nac really is and just... how kind of Not-Okay it's been progressing.
> 
> (2) If you'd like to check out Jean's ridiculous mug that he absolutely adores, [here you go!](https://morikami.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Mug-Fat-Cat-113-163.jpg) I actually had the shape written down first before googling for the closest pic to what I'd imagined the mug would be and I have to say: it's pretty damn close.
> 
> (3) Any reviews / comments / kudos would be heeeelllaaaa appreciated and! Would boost my ego and motivation so much to continue writing this! The next chapter should introduce us to a few new-ish characters ( hehe, spoiler alert? Sort of? ) and... we're gonna get a bit sad with Marco just a tiny bit.


	6. Marco, No Fast Car Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got excited by the fact that I've written a full chapter I was struggling with (not this chapter though, an upcoming one!), and decided to publish this a tiny bit earlier than normally scheduled. As promised, new-ish character introduced and a sad Marco being sadder :(

At this point, I should probably be sick of crying.

Make no mistake, I am. However, my body disagrees. I do not know how long I’ve sat on the floor of this damned small apartment and let the suffocation of the place haunts me into tears. Or, maybe, it’s not my apartment’s fault as much as it has been the fact that Nac have come by, wanting to fuck me, only for me to ruin it all by asking him out to lunch. _Lunch_. That’s all it took.

“Do you think, maybe, we could get lunch first? I mean, since we both haven’t eaten yet,” I can hear my own voice meekly asking. 

Perhaps if I’ve recorded it beforehand only to listen to it back, I can admit later that that didn’t sound like me. I know what I sound like. In Jinae, I was never — what I am in this city. I’d like to fully blame it on Sina. The rush and the crowd and the noise, I’d like to extremely claim that everything combined had ruined the version of myself I have known and cherished back when I was still living with my parents.

The Marco in Jinae has always been a pleasant guy. A family guy. The kind of guy friends would cheer my name to whenever I walk into that bar that we have in town because I’m a friend; because I was _friendly_. The day I’d left, my older sister had hugged me so tight; her thin arms wrapped around me as she whispered that, out of anyone, she knew it’d be me that gets to be out of our stinking state.

I had smiled then, shook my head and informed, “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Pretty sure I’ve heard Amelia constructed 50 ways to sneak into Uncle Matteo’s truck to follow me out.”

My older sister had laughed, the lines around her eyes crinkling, “Oh, I’ll bet she tries.”

I laughed along with her. In the corner of my eyes, a few of our neighbours and some of my best mates from school are all waiting in line before I truly depart. Later, at the airport, only my father and Uncle Matteo would be around to say their goodbyes. “Now, you go out there and make us proud, alright?”

 _Proud_ , she says, but I’m nothing like what she must expect now, am I?

The blanket of depression is no longer hanging heavily across the expanse of my shoulders. In fact, in the light of the door being shut down behind Nac, I feel it wrapped around my throat like noose. I have no true recollection how I manage to close the sliding doors and get myself into the shower, but I have — only, of course, for me to break down and sob through my teeth like a mess.

 _Stupid_ , I chastise myself, rewinding again of the scenario. Nac had wanted me, fingers digging into the skin of my back, insistent hips grinding together as if the scratches his nails left behind isn’t enough already to show his desire in the moment, and I’ve blurted that offer out like an _idiot_.

Has this really what my life has come to?

Wasn’t I excited? Wasn’t I looking forward to Sina? Hunching over the brochures with my younger sister, Amelia, of my University and the town surrounding it and giggling about what sort of people I would meet. _There would be buses, Marco! You could take them and see everything!_ Amelia would preen, rereading the same thing I have read the moment I was determined that our local college wasn’t somewhere I would like to pursue my studies at. _Don’t worry about Mamma and Papà. They’ll get over their worries soon._

Yes, I remember. Mother had been skeptical about letting me study so far. In retrospect, Sina is only five hours away without traffic. It wasn’t like I was on another continent, but she had voiced out quite quickly that she hadn’t fully agree with my decision when I confronted my parents about my choice in Universities. My father had been slightly more understanding, having studied and worked in Rose City briefly before he moved back and met our mother. Being a teenager dreaming of something bigger than the fields of green Jinae provide, I was quick to assure my parents again and again that I would be fine.

I have assured myself again and again of the same thing.

Presently, I am trying to do the same but by each drag of wrecked breathing due to my noisy crying, my resolve quickly melts away. _I will be okay_ , I hear the sound of my own voice trying to soothe, though another harsh voice will quickly interrupt, _You’re screwed now, Bodt. You’re alone and hopeless and there’s no one out there who cares. No one. The ones who do are way too far away and you left._

In spite of my horrible breakdown, I do manage to crawl my way out of the shower, towelled myself, and put on a clean sweater. I’m not sure how many hours it took, or how many days, but finally, as if getting the memo, my eyes don’t leak as heavily at the reminder of this suffocation of breathing in the fact that I’m a stranger to these streets that I have been inhabiting for the past few months. The desire to go home grows every day, and the guilt that I have had the desire in the first place multiples simply.

This is not the state anybody should be in.

Regardless, the world doesn’t end. My eyes are dry, my spirit is unfortunately damaged, and I am quick to realise that it’s been four days since I’ve made any effort to go to campus and associate myself with the college student life. My phone beeps with the reminder that class will be starting in an hour. I click the side-button only to watch the screen of it turn pitch black, rejecting the offer, and trying not to think of my parents’ faces clicking their tongues in disappointment. I snuggle back to the comfort of my blanket and bed. The message Nac sent me yesterday — once in the morning, then five more rapid texts in the evening — are left unanswered. I don’t wish to cry again.

It’s an hour afterwards that I am woken up to the sound of a knock. Several soft knocks, in fact. I groggily blink this body of mine to a full state of consciousness, realising my skin is damp from sweat of me cooping up but having no energy to do anything about it, and wonder who could it be on the other side of my door. I wish I could pretend that I am not home, but then the knock comes with an equally soft and polite voice:

“Hey, Marco. It’s Armin.”

 _Crap_ , I think, as simultaneously as my brain attempts, _Why is Armin here?_

I open the door, and there, a smaller frame with yellow hair tied back, stand one of my good friends, Armin Arlert. Back when I’ve only began this course, Armin helps a lot with notes and pointers regarding to both the subjects I was still getting the hands on and the campus life. _He was also the reason I met Nac_ , my mind bitterly supplies, but I push it aside, focuses instead in trying to fix whatever’s left of my image by pushing at strands of my unkempt black hair behind. I instantly feel like I should shower, or I should clean. Rid myself of this stench that had been caused by the sudden punch of loneliness since my argument with Nac, but my motivation doesn’t last. Just as quickly, my hand drops. I only listen to my voice weakly asking, “A-Armin? What … why are you here? Is something wrong?”

Armin’s blue eyes look kind. Too kind, perhaps, that I’m gobsmacked at the feeling that I might cry again. When was the last time I’ve had such kind eyes on me? My sister’s proud expression enters my memory, and my knees buckle a little under pressure.

“No…” Armin starts, before, catching himself, he fixes his answer, “I mean, nothing serious, I suppose. It’s just — may I come in?”

I see no choice but to relent, even though there is a large part of me that protests so. Why wouldn’t it? I know for a fact that my place is in no condition to welcome guests. Nac had been prominent visitor, but he cared about the interior of my small apartment as much as he cared about our relationship status — which was not much, as long as his dick gets to be buried in me. I cringe at my own phrasing despite it being uttered only in my thoughts. I’m not one for vulgar languages, but, lately, the loneliness that creeps are making me careless: both in how I usually portray myself and my environment.

Perhaps this is why Armin has come to visit me. I was missing classes and was unresponsive to any e-mails as well as texts that came in from members of my group which I was assigned to together for assignments. I wonder though, how Armin has heard of my absence. Had the lecturers reach out? Had my classmates?

Turns out, I’m not too far off. Armin admits to the Head of the Faculty reaching out to him, considering she had known that I was acquainted with Armin ever since the beginning of the semester. I immediately feel guilty of the fact that, by association, Armin has made to be put into having to reach out to me like this. However Armin, possibly seeing my reaction, shakes his head with a small smile. He doesn’t look even the tiniest bit uncomfortable sitting there across the dinner table, hands politely crossing over each other as he stares me down. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or continue to amuse the panic over this guilt that’s spreading inside of me.

“If you’re thinking you’re troubling me, you’re not.” Armin insists, and my face heats up.

I try smiling back. The attempt of it itches at the corners of my mouth though all my body wants is to tear up again. In spite of all the other confusing and negative feelings, I am so, _so_ happy Armin is in my apartment. The realisation rushes at me so abruptly that I have to admit at losing my breath over it for a second. 

In truth, I’ve missed the Marco that I was. The one who was so friendly, the one with bright eyes and even brighter aspirations. I’d wanted to teach. Wanted to return to Jinae with a degree and stories of my new friends and experiences. I wanted to wow my little sister Amelia and tell her to dream as big as she dares. I miss my old self. Yet, sadly, once more, I wonder what happened to it. Had I kill it? Or had the city rob me of the person I once was? My thoughts, as usual, stray to blame Nac as well, but my heart refuse stubbornly. Even after the argument that has rendered me into being nothing but a showerless mess, I still hold out hope that everything between Nac and I will work out.

That I’ll be happy with him, because… Because I deserve to. I want to.

“You don’t need to tell me what happened if you’re not ready, Marco.” Armin continues, sincere. Back when we first met, Armin and I would make appointments for coffees and brunches, and we would talk for hours or even minutes should one of our schedules grow to become hectic. The time of our conversations had not mattered; all we’d wanted was to hang out. He’s had things to share from his time learning, and I was eager to soak all of the information he had to give. In return, any concerns and things I’ve read or recently discovered will be discussed. I was happy. I was cheerful and motivated. Armin is still the same.

I am not.

“But if you are, I’ll be here. And… as the University’s ambassador, it’s also partially my job to look after my peers. To look after _my friends_. We do have a great staff at Titans’ Counselling Office. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, or just — need someone else, someone from the outside for another view altogether, to help you out, I’d be more than glad to point out the way, alright?”

Counselling. I can’t believe it. Has this truly what my life has been resulted to?

Even in my sadness, my stubbornness refuses to quit. _I’m not completely emotionally stable, yeah_ , I’ll admit to that, but to hear such blatant request? I hear my voice begins to protest, “I’m fine, Armin, I’m just—” yet just as quickly, it tapers off into sounding weak. I’m so pathetic, I think. Immediately, there’s a wave of anger surging in my chest. I am angry at a lot of things: at my incompetence, at the motivation that I’ve lost, at Armin who boldly presents me this offer, no matter how kind his intention had been. After all, I’ve just been having bad days. I don’t think I need to seek out anybody for this tiny, selfish problem. 

“I’m not — _crazy_ , or anything. I don’t need—”

“I’m not saying you are. Marco.” This time, Armin sounds serious, cutting me off cleanly. I decide to lift my eyes to meet his gaze. For a guy with not much of an intimidating stature, Armin can look fierce when he really wants his points to go across. He isn’t always like this when he’s with me. Armin was always gentle, kind and passionately intelligent. The few times he’ll pull out these expressions are when he’ll receive phone calls pertaining to his duty as an Ambassador, which, technically, if the rumours are right, are an occupation. They don’t pay a lot, the University, though the positions itself are good to be put into your resume. “You and I both know reaching for help doesn’t equally mean that you, or anybody for that matter, are crazy. We all need it, you know? Help. Or — just an ear to listen.”

I’m silent. _I can take care of myself_ , my brain demands, though the rest of me argue, _No. No, you can’t. Not anymore_.

“Marco…”

“Is that all?” I hear myself snap. Inwardly, I immediately regretted my tone. Any other circumstances, my voice will be quick to flood Armin with apologies. Of course, I hadn’t meant it. Of course, Armin made sense. If I were wearing his shoes, I’d probably be doing more-or-less the same thing. However, rationalities aren’t something my mind wants to compromise with. Neither does me being forgiving or kind. All it wanted was to lash out. Or cry some more. At one point, my body will break down from all of these actions, I predict. Thought not yet.

I’m so tired.

“Call me.” Armin says, instead. His reply and demeanour exuding patience. I feel like a rebellious fifteen-year-old glaring at the one teacher who gave a crap about them and it made them grow confused by the attention. Fitting, really, since we’re both getting our Degrees in becoming educators. Though fitting that metaphor now to me just seems sad. I went to University to become a teacher, and now I’ve likened myself to a boy who’s still stuck in his grief and angst while roaming the high school halls. “No matter the time, okay? I’d like to see you around campus again, Marco. I really do.”

 _Me too_ , I don’t say, wringing my hands over the worn shirt and purposely avoiding his eye-contact. I don’t like the jumble of emotions that seem so determined to claw its way up my oesophagus, so I don’t decipher what is it that my brain wants me to feel.

“Maybe we can get coffee again, sometimes. I mean, hot chocolates for you, of course." Armin smiles, gentle. "There are some topics I’d really like your opinion on.”

And that’s that. Armin leaves just like that. Not because he wants to, but because my snappish and reclusive attitude drives him away. No, in fact, all of my body languages were broadcasting all of the movement of someone who wants his guests to quickly leave him alone. I suppose that is not the model behaviour, but it seems to be the right course of action because as soon as the door clicks shut again, I sit there in the doorway to cry. Again.

Though, thankfully, my sobbing fest doesn’t last hours this time.

I was just — _happy_ , I suppose. Or strangely relieved. Even after how I’ve behaved and how unreliable I’ve seem to be with my classes, Armin still wants to discuss with me like we’ve always done in the beginning. How did it stop, anyway? I couldn’t quite pinpoint when or why, but I’m not eager to learn of the answer. 

Somehow, I survive the night and manage to talk myself into finally attending the class the next day. Friday. It’s great, actually, getting out — now that I _am_ out. I only have the class in the afternoon, and a workshop, if I want to attend, in the evening. I didn’t end up going to the workshop, held up by my classmates as I half-heartedly apologise for not answering any texts and e-mails. They made me sit down and we manage to work through all that I’ve missed during the discussions regarding the team assignments I really should be contributing.

I don’t feel great, but when I manage to provide some ideas and have my teammates respond is a nice experience, nevertheless.

Before the evening falls, I visit the local grocery to pick all of the instant box foods, but not without stopping at the small restaurant where I’ve ordered a warm risotto for myself. It smells almost like home, but not quite. _Enough_ , though, that I don’t absolutely find myself hating the sound of a car alarm when I immediately walked back into the streets. In fact, from hating, I just… feel as if I’ve blended into the crowds here.

Just another person walking down the street with things he bought from the grocery and the take-out for him to dine tonight. I feel ordinary.

I’m not quite sure if I feel entirely glad for this new revelation, but — I’m not as heartbroken, at least. So, I take it as a win. The sense of loneliness hovers back at the sight of my apartment. At this point, the sky is shining orange. The silhouette it creates on buildings and people as shadows are long and dark. I squint when I look up. Still, it doesn’t prevent me from starting my climb to my floor.

“.. _.I know things will get better, you’ll find work and I’ll get promoted, we’ll move out of the shelter, buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs_...” Jean sings, just as I unlock my door and drop the groceries by the kitchen floor. Quickly, my attention goes to the slightly-open sliding door where the voice drifts from. I don’t let Jean’s voice stop my activity though, when I kneel down and begin assorting my stuff away. At the same time, I let his song wash over me.

“ _I remember we were driving, driving in your car, speed so fast I felt like I was drunk_ ,” I hear Morgana meowing in between the plucking of Jean’s guitar, but he doesn’t stop, and the strong strumming of it in the chorus makes me fantasise Nac driving down the city. What was it? _Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk?_ Sounds like every cliche, and yet my heart clenches in yearning. If only, huh?

I put away a box of milk, and Jean continues, “ _And I… I… had a feeling that I belonged, and I… I… had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone..._ ”

Jean finishes the song after a paragraph of lyrics and the repetition of the chorus. His voice, though not legendary, gets me fixed to it when he repeats, “ _City lights lay out before us, and your arms felt nice wrapped around my shoulder, and I… I… had a feeling that I belonged…_ ” I wonder, briefly, if Jean’s particularly dedicating the song to anybody; if there were someone, after all, that he longs and speaks of when he speaks of having his arms wrapped around him. A romanticist, perhaps, I smile at the image.

No matter how awkward or odd our meetings have been, Jean seems like a nice person. Or at least, nice enough to give me a coupons to a store I’ve never considered having existed before. He would deserve a kinder romance. He turns the small smile I’ve got into a near chuckle around the spoon where I’m biting down my risotto.

In my hand, I start to scroll down Spotify to listen to the song he just ends once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I first heard of _“Fast Car”_ (originally by Tracy Chapman) from Elizabeth Gillies’ cover of it, like, years ago, and have been hooked by the song ever since. (Do check it out! It's been covered by many other artists ever since e.g.: Khalid, Bieber, Sam Smith!) I didn't mean to somehow match up Jean's acoustic covers with Marco's mood all the time but, _eh_ , I guess it happens.
> 
> ii. Social adjustment / culture shock upon uprooting is, I think, an experience I severely feel related to because not only has it happened to me, but, by observation, is something that's happened to many of my immediate and close family members and friends — even the ones I thought wouldn't have these sort of problems. If you're experiencing the same difficulty to adjust, or just realise an environment is ill-fitting for you, do reach out for help. Marco, baby, I know it's hard on you right now, but we'll be okay.
> 
> iii. GUYS! Thank you so much for your comments, kudos and just! Your general attention to this fic! I'm so glad it's being read still even though the ship has been a little wane, huh? Alright, in the next chapter, we're back to Jean's point of view. We'll be introduced to a WHOLE NEW CHARACTER I've been excited to write and develop (surprisingly! They weren't apart of the draft in the beginning!), and Jean and Marco will have a little time to chat. A little. Will it be a bad chat or good? We'll find out!
> 
> iv. I'm not online as much, but do feel free to reach me out at [@maariarogers](https://maariarogers.tumblr.com/) (tumblr) for anything at all! Regardless, tell me your thoughts on this chapter, send your well wishes to our characters, and I'll see you all again soon :)


	7. Jean, Run Boy Run!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post this a tiny bit earlier because:
> 
> i. I can.
> 
> ii. I finished Chapter 10 ahead of schedule, and I got excited. This probably won't happen again because I need to learn, what the kids call, Restraint(tm).
> 
> iii. I'm helllaaaaaa excited for Archive of Our Own for winning the **_Hugo Award_** for _Best Related Work_! Congratulations, especially, to the people who are responsible for this site but also, to the rest of us, readers and writers alike! We're all award winners now! If you have the time, do congratulate AO3 at any media platform you're able to, because this is a HUGE DEAL, you guys! It means our fanfictions are as validated as any writing / story-telling efforts and publications out there! What a day to be alive, right?
> 
> For all of the reasons aforementioned above, I'm releasing the seventh chapter now!

This time, I’m doing my assignments in our campus’ plaza.

Normally, I’m not nearly this proactive to openly subject myself to a position where, while there are also many other students out here, I’m basically exposed. I usually would find crooks and areas that aren’t too populated to do my work. I like my privacy. I like that, every few minutes into doing whatever I must do, I am not haunted by the sense to look over my shoulder just to ensure that nobody judges my design or work from where I could not see them or have invited them to.

Yeah, I’m rude and a generally terrible person, whatever. That doesn’t mean I’m not ridden with the common anxiety over something I pour a little bit of my heart into it.

Though that seems a bit more sentimental than I intend for it to come out as, considering we’re discussing school work. 

My point remains though, I take what I design or write or merely contribute into, no matter how small or big, as … something I cherish since I’ve given a bit of my effort and thoughts into it. Sure, there are times when I’ve stopped giving a fuck, especially if I’ve got a particularly annoying classmate and/or a pretentious lecturer, I won’t deny that, but most of the time? I do care. And to have someone prematurely judge that before I’m ready to reveal it or I haven’t asked them to? Yeah, fuck that.

In any case, I’m at the plaza now, which isn’t my usual M.O., I’ll admit, but that’s only because my next class would have it very inconvenient if I’m anywhere else. There’s a cafe there, I think, that’s near _that_ part of the campus, but nah. I don’t need to splurge on overpriced coffee just for a forty-five minute of sitting down and adding up final touches based on the notes my lecturer has given me since the last review.

Just as I’m gritting my teeth regarding the placement of the logo, I hear my phone buzzes. I curse, only because it’s vibrated in the back pocket of my jeans. It’s a bad habit I seem to have: to place my phone there and forget about it entirely until I inevitably heard the _thud_ of it from falling straight from the area of my ass to the floor. I get occupied, you know?

With other stuff. I forget about it every time.

I press the side-button of my phone to light it up and notice a message from Franz. Swiping it to read, I thumb to confirm my identity and unlock my phone so it’ll allow me access. This time, I’m fortunate. My phone decides I’m perhaps worthy enough that it’ll grant me such access. Other times, I have had to resort to manually unlocking my phone with my combination lock.

> **_Franz_ ** **_  
> _ ** _Got your drive with me. Want it?_

Oh, right. My harddrive. 

> **_You_ ** **_  
> _ ** _U finish wit it?_
> 
> **_Franz_ **   
>  _The movie? Yeah._  
>  _Just_  
>  _Maybe don’t delete it immediately until im sure_  
>  _the editors got everything_  
>  _That cool?_
> 
> **_You_ **   
>  _Np_  
>  _Want it back for now tho cause my 3d_  
>  _software’s eatin so much space_  
>  _These bag of digs_  
>  _Where u at? I come 2 u_
> 
> **_Franz_ **   
>  _Ur free right now?_  
>  _Thats rare lol_  
>  _Hannah said if ur up for lunch_  
>  _Yell holla really loudly_  
>  _@ a meeting currently but its done_  
>  _*almost_  
>  _Just have a few things to go over_  
>  _With the production manager_  
>  _We’re at Block K later_
> 
> **_You_ **   
>  _Got a glass in 20 tho_  
>  _Tell hannah fuck off nice try but im not doing it_  
>  _Its on my way 2 Block J so i’ll drop by n_  
>  _get it from u_  
>  _Feed me tho i need it lmao_  
>  _But like, quicklu_  
>  _Like, i’m a mcdonald drive tru_

Before I can articulate what Franz’s reply is going to be, my chuckle at the ready, I am spooked by the slide of another chair joining me at my table. Which, by the way, if anybody needs visualising, is fully littered with my giant laptop, my bag occupying another chair that’s situated near me, my power bank, which is wired up to the phone I am currently holding, a file that is sky-blue in colour and covered in stickers because that’s what Connie and Sasha demands whenever they remember to send me some ( _“Showcase your love for us physically Jean Kirschtein!!!! Tell the world you are OURS!!!”_ ), and a bottle of water that’s half-empty because I equally have drunk about 20% of it during my last lecture and also because I’ve forgotten to fill it up this morning. If you’re not sure, that’s about 3/4th of the table that’s solely been taken by me.

There should be no reason for another to join.

Yet, Hitch remains an exception. She knows it too, smiling like a Cheshire cat at a chair that she drags just to purposely ruin my whole day by clearly invading my space. I am a young man in my early twenties, I swear, but Hitch being near makes me feel as if I’m burdened by high-blood pressure. I try to tame my expression into complete neutrality, but Hitch clearly isn’t giving a damn, so I allow a twitch to my eyebrow to happen.

“ _Jeen_ ,” She croons, being favourably annoying as usual.

 _Calm down, Jean_ . It’s no good tearing her hair down at 3 o’ clock in the evening while being in public. I could be charged with assault. I don’t need a charge of assault. Prison won’t be good for my already-not-completely-healthy diet. “I thought I’d smell _Doom_ and _Drainer of Soul_ around. The fuck do you want, Hitch?”

She’s still so pretty, though. Fantastic mastery of eyebrow make-up and lazy, erotic gaze. I know none of you have expected to read that in a sentence, but hey, if I have to deal with this _Devil Looking Like A Daydream_ scenario, you have to. “Nothing, really.” Which could mean anything. Fuck, I hate this. Already, my brain sort of dulls down. I could not, for the life of me, think of anything better than to stare and gawk. 

“I’ve just heard rumours, is all.”

 _Shit_ , I pray, though not very nicely. _Please don’t have me so weak-willed, God, that I’m just going to be easily manipulated into doing her bidding_. I’ve finally achieved peaceful-student-life status that is in a relative space where I’m not doing too bad, nor executing college too well. I do not need to screw this level of equilibrium up. 

“Rumours,” I parrot her, because I’m an idiot. Because I feel like that will solve my conversation with her quickly; by not prodding her to explain, nor am I forcefully shutting her down. Both circumstances would’ve had her more aggressive in her approach. An aggressive Hitch isn’t what anybody need. I, the least.

“Yes, darling. _Rumours_.” She hisses, but elegantly. I have no idea how she does it: appearing so poise and delightful while dripping every aura of being a menace. I wonder if it’s something she’s born with and has harnessed, or it’s some sort of a coping mechanism that I’m in no interest to actually finding out. “You’ve been saving up money. Asking for commissions and sorts. I heard a few people recommend your work, even. Ain’t that just bee’s knees?”

 _Jesus_.

“Look,” I start, thankfully out of my reverie enough to finally begin gathering my stuff. A glance at the time on the top right side of my laptop lets me know I don’t have much time left. “I don’t know what kind of tricks you’re trying to pull, but I’m not playing, Hitch.”

Hitch cackles. This time, I can tell she’s at least half sincere by the way her dimples actually show with her smile. “I’ve taken on a new role, baby doll! You should see the play by the end of the semester. It’s going to be grand, I assure you. Worth every penny.”

For any clarification, Hitch is in the Performing Arts’ course, which falls, technically, under my department — Art — but can also be considered as under Communication. Terminology isn’t important, of course, but the fact remains that Hitch has got all the occupation to be a rising star. On the side, she’s also taken ballet and is one of the instructors available for a Hip Hop class the Performing Arts students have established. I’ve only taken the class once, to appease her, and have made a huge ass of myself during the whole time I’ve breathed in the studio.

At least, Hitch is impressed enough that we fuck in the shower room available in the school’s gym next door. Yeah, not exactly the epitome of tact, the both of us, but I was young and she was beautiful. Still is. I’m not so young anymore, though.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. I need to go.” I say, though not completely dismissing the idea. I might see the play, if I have Franz and Hannah around to see it with me. The plays set up by the Performing Arts’ course are usually locally praised. It might just be worth to see among the many mundane activities I’m sure I’ll be doing once exam is over, though not specifically for Hitch. 

She can trip over her own tutu or whatever while she’s at it, I’d just clap my hands and would be ready for the next scene.

“Jean,” She says my name carefully this time, porcelain-like hand over my closed laptop just as I’m reaching over to put it in my bag. I briefly have a vision of the time when we were so-called ‘dating’: all of those skipped classes and me, hunching over the toilet bowl, to keep up with her need to socialise at every party in Sina. No. What Hitch and I have may be unhealthy, but Hitch, herself…

She’s not a bad person. I just dislike how we treated each other, and the wound hasn’t exactly healed when I learned that she’s been carelessly cheating on me.

Then again, I do admit I wasn’t exactly a saint. It was a mutual break-up, after all. Messy and stupidly handled, yeah. But it was mutual. We both have our reasons.

“Baby, you’re so stressed.”

“Be more irritating. I dare you.”

At this, Hitch’s stare turns a bit colder. My chest flares with an immature pride over the reaction. See what I mean? When I’m with her, I feel like the worst of me just _shows_. There is no restraint into stopping any rude remarks or hostile behaviour. That’s why I don’t like being around her for too long. Suddenly, that overpriced coffee doesn’t seem so bad in comparison.

“I’m single right now,” She remarks casually, and I resist the urge to make any movement that suggest I’m gagging, but I am. On the inside. Vehemently. I do not need this information, _I don’t want it_ . “And you are too. I’m just _saying_. If you need to blow that money up somewhere, I’d love to kiss a coin for luck.”

Oh fuck, if I could throw pennies to ensure she’ll stay the fuck away, I would have. As is, I'm a stingy person. I don’t intend to throw any amount of hard-work money for any form of kisses, thank you.

“Honey, you’re as lonely as a ghost. I’m not suggesting a relationship ‘cause we tried that once and look how that burned the both of us, _buuuut…_.” I want to rebuke on her knowledge of ghosts just to have her shut up on whatever analogy or speech she’s trying to deliver, but she’s too quick. She lets go of the laptop, yet I hesitate to reach and grab hold of it. She’s got me now. Fuck. “I know a few great clubs. We can get VIP seats, J. No one to bother you when you’re in the mood except me, yeah?”

I zip my bag up loudly. 

_Shut up, shut up_ , I scream loudly in my head, but my frown on the outside glues my lips shut together. 

She shrugs, and flashes that Cheshire grin at me once more. The one where she smiles _just_ _right_ that the winged eye-liner she puts on looks remarkable and flattering on her heart-shaped face. _She’s so pretty_ , I think, not for the first time, though not happily. _How can such pretty thing give me such a dark feeling to possess?_ “Think about it.” 

I don’t want to, and yet, as I walk furiously to the familiar blocks to get to Franz, I do.

Yesterday, ConSash shared with me the album of their latest journey. _We’re taking over Southeast Asia, baby!_ Connie had grinned into one of the videos, arms spread behind him to show a temple that’s high as a downrise flat with Sasha hopping in the background. They’re somewhere in _Bali, Indonesia_ , if my memory has not yet failed me, by the airline ticket purchases Sasha has taken a blurry photograph of. _Bali_ , I think, which translates easily into it, _a long way from home_.

As a principle, I am not angry that Sasha and Connie have chosen what they’ve chosen when they’ve disregarded any plans for college and decided to hundred-percent invest on Sasha’s then growing Youtube popularity as a vlogger. Partially because they’re _that_ impulsive of a pair for me to stop, but another rational part of me had always thought that Sasha’s online present, though was increasing steadily before, weren’t going to work. That was alright. If Sasha failed, and Connie, as a package deal, failed as well, I had been convinced that the worst would happen would be that the three of us would be sharing an apartment together well until we’re in our thirties.

I may grumble and complain, why wouldn’t I be, but I’d learned long and hard from my childhood that I’d rather be stuck with my best friends than to lose them over being petty or prideful.

By then, logically, I would expect at least one of them to already gain a job. I wouldn’t mind if the wage wouldn’t be big. I was planning to be an artist, then. _I think I might be broke my whole life_ , I’d confessed to them during one of our sleepover nights where Sasha, Connie and me are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder over the floor of my small bedroom apartment. All three of us burst out laughing, and I knew, almost ridiculously, dreamily, that no matter what happens, it’ll be alright.

When Sasha, at this point, joined by Connie, were offered a reasonable sum for all of their effort in vlogging, I was happy for them. Ecstatic, really. They never once forgot me during their crazy expedition. If not by mentioning my name in their video updates, they would buy me gifts and souvenirs — not all, as per the traditional ConSash style, are practical. They’d amuse me, nevertheless.

I’m happy for them.

Yet, with another confirmation that they won’t be coming back to Paradis, my heart lurches. I’m lonely. I have Franz and Hannah, another pair of couple I’ve miraculously tricked into thinking I’m decent as a company, but other than that, I’m afraid I’m just not friendly enough to maintain pleasant companionship. I suppose it’s my fault. I glare more naturally than I smile, and my dedication to ensuring my work is complete — which borderlines me being a perfectionist — thoroughly and splendidly becomes a mental vault I’ve kept that just hasn’t allowed me to put more effort into… well, being a friend.

I was a praiseable student, a serious classmate and teammate, a particular designer, but I was never much of a good friend.

Once assignments are handed in, exams are being done for departments and/or courses that’s got them, the University will be tying off the semester with a few communal activities here and there, and then, just like that, nearly most of us that has followed the standard academic schedule would be on a break. I still haven’t decided if I’d go back to Trost. I had, the last semester break, because it’d been winter and I’ve never not celebrated Hanukkah without Maman before, and hadn’t had plans to stop celebrating them now. Additionally, Connie and Sasha had been home. They’d even made a Christmas video special, with Sasha preparing a three-meal course including a Gingerbread house, and I’d been quickly featured — not purposely and by a mean tactic of ambush.

It’d been great.

The same couldn’t be said now. If choices are to be made this instant, I don’t want to return home. I’ve saved enough money to splurge here and there with trips or expensive lunches. It didn’t occur to me that I might be working so hard for those because I wanted to experience them with someone. Anyone. My mind slowly drifts to Hitch, but I stop that train of thought venomously. I might drop a visit, a short one, to Maman regardless, if worse comes to worst, but I’m sure she’s got her time occupied with cooking lessons ever since Sasha’s introduced her to the classes.

“Marco?” I hear myself croak.

The man in question, all freckled skin and hair-parted-in-the-middle, looks up. He’s sitting in one of the rare benches on campus. I would know because I absolutely refuse to sit on the ground if it weren’t blanketed beforehand on reasons that they might not be as kept as they’re claimed. Therefore, I suffer, several times in fact, from lounging my heavy-ass laptop around until I could find a proper, free place to sit. Which, I repeat, are rare.

Marco looks startled by my voice. Huge brown eyes blinking back at me like he couldn’t believe I’d called out to him in public. Maybe he didn’t. I certainly haven’t thought I had the balls.

Immediately, I am drenched with a seaful sense of awkwardness. This is why I’m not good at making friends. In times of stress that’s to do with a lack of things to converse about, I glare or freeze up. Marco is a nice guy, I remind myself from the times we’ve encountered each other. I really don’t need to give him a reason to flee at the sight of me the next time our paths are crossed. Ah, geez. Why did I have to open my mouth?

“Oh. Hi, Jean.” His brain must have finally caught up, and Marco smiles at me tentatively. Under the University atmosphere and the Sun shining all around, his smile looks prominent somehow. Outstanding. It’s different under the shitty lights of our apartment. I hope he smiles more. He’s definitely gonna get more friends than I ever could if he does.

“Yeah.” I say, as if _he_ was the one who had interrupted me and, as a response, I grow wary. “Um-”

“Are you finished with class?” Marco finally did interrupt right back, but that’s okay. I didn’t think I was gonna say anything smart anyway. I was just going to stutter my way into dumbly blurting out anything my mind could conjure up about. I thought back about his cursive handwriting, but now that I’m seriously pondering, I wonder if there is a smart way to bring any subject up regarding handwriting after all. God, I’m a dumbass.

“Yeah. About an hour ago, give or take.” I manage to answer. I hitch up my bag higher. I wish I’m not as physically guarded as I am mentally, but it’s just how I’ve been wired. I hope Marco takes no offense. “You?”

“Yeah, about twenty minutes ago. I was just—um—thinking about grabbing lunch. A late lunch.” He scrambles the last part of that sentence, as if I’m a primitive man who struggles to handle the concept of timely dining. I’m sure that wasn’t what he intended. It’s how I’ve felt anyways.

“Oh.” As you can see, I am extremely eloquent. “There’s a Chinese restaurant that’s pretty affordable. They gave out special prices on Friday after six. Their fortune cookies are shit, though.”

I don’t know why, but Marco seems slightly perked up. Slightly. “Really?”

Maybe Marco’s fascinated by shit fortune reading. That’s kinda adorable. I shrug, “Yeah. It’s kind of off-campus, so you have to walk a little bit. And it’s, uh. It’s the opposite way of our apartment, so that’s — that’s another extra step you’ve gotta, uh, you know. Take. But, I mean, their Chow Mein noodles are good. I can at least vouch for that.”

My phone buzzes. Instinctively, I read the screen to identify Franz had sent me another message. At the same time, I hear Marco reply, “That’s great. I’ve never really had a Chinese cuisine before, so, um, J-Jean, maybe if you’re free right now, we could—”

“Ah, shit.” I curse aloud, barely registering what it is that Marco’s saying, let alone configuring the meaning and what it was that he’s suggesting, looking at my wristwatch as I brush my light-brown-blonde hair behind. I have to get that hard drive. I’m going to be late to class. “I’m gonna be late,” I repeat aloud, already feeling the thin veil of sweat covering my forehead and the back of my neck as I do so. Damn. I blame this all on Hitch.

“Sorry, man. I gotta go, okay? See you around.”

I sprint, turning two sharp corners, nearly collide with a rather petite girl who’s had a stack of files covering her sight as she walks down the corridor, which, really, is more of a hazard than it being a mindless activity, almost trip on a drain, before I finally reach Block J. And even then, I’ve had less than five minutes to spare. This is totally unfair. I had wanted to steal bits of chicken from Franz’s plate. They’re having Shawarma, and my stomach protests at the only slice of bread I’ve engulfed before my 11 o’clock class this morning. The growl obviously indicates that my whole body wants meat. Or at least, more food than what I’ve supplied it.

When Franz offers me two bite, I almost cried out of relief. Hannah laughs at my expression openly, biting onto her own Shawarma, extra spicy, because she’s hot-blooded or something. It makes me forget the dreadful encounter I’ve had with my ex, and the not-so-dreadful follow up I’ve had with my neighbor. 

What was it again that Marco was asking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Again, I'm just gonna mention the Hugo Award because it's still such a remarkable thing! Congratulations to _everybody_! I'm hella stocked to be here to share this honour with all of you :)
> 
> ii. I initially hadn’t planned to expand Jean and Hitch’s relationship beyond the fact that, from Jean’s point of view, you’ll get to see her as this very toxic influence for him. But! I ended up enjoying her character too much and there’s a lot about their past relationship together that I found I could explore. I can’t guarantee Hitch’ll come again to stir trouble, because she’s never been set as the main antagonist in the first place, though I won’t deny the potential. Slyly insert several eye emojis.
> 
> iii. Guys, if you can drop a comment / kudos / any form of acknowledgement should you enjoy this story, I would be hella happy! In the next chapter, hopefully, we will see Marco again and... [spoiler alert? sort of?] _a crisis arrive_.


	8. Marco, Not Christina and Blake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: panic attack.
> 
> I don't think I've depicted it in severe details, but! Just in case! Do be careful :)

I’m heaving.

I can’t breathe. It hurts. Everything hurts. This evening, I’ve gotten a surprise call from one of my siblings. I was trudging myself home beforehand, feeling absolutely aimless, though at that point, I’ve experienced so much the feeling had no longer felt foreign. I had half a heart to visit the Counselling Office, finally. After days, that is, of pondering even though I pretended I wasn’t curious nor intrigued. More than that, I was crossing the line to desperation. In the darkness where the world I once knew shut out its light, I realise nearly achingly that I wasn’t ready to lose myself.

I wanted to be happy again. I wanted to _try_.

It wasn’t my brother’s fault. I know Yuri meant well. All of my family members are whenever they call. They used to check up on me quite frequently, I remember. However, as the months went by, I’ve quieted down in reaching back. Perhaps taking it as a sign that I wanted some space, or was enjoying college life that I had been determined to partake, they didn't want to disturb me. I used to feel relief that they’ve stopped calling, or they’ve stopped expecting me to answer back immediately. I wasn’t at all adjusting to my University schedule as well as I was hoping, and I didn't want them to see.

However, my selfishness has gone overboard. Now, I feel like a hypocrite, always wishing somehow one of my families would notice and begin reaching out once more, while wrestling with the fact that I will never allow them to see this version of me I’ve become.

Admittedly though, the surprise phone call had not gone bad.

No, in fact, I ended up spending probably a solid fifteen minutes chatting with him, his wife, and their twin girls. Bianca and Bendetta were chatting up a storm about the flowers that bloomed, and a bee hive that the family had a temporary feud with upon discovery. “And then, and then!” One of them had exasperated, “Uncle Gio threw a stone at it! _Bisnonna_ was screaming so loud!” They burst into giggles, quickly imitating my Grandmother in rapid Italian.

I smiled. Hell, I even laughed along. 

“And I swear to you, man. I have no idea why Anne kicked Gio’s ass, not really, but she did, so—” my brother laughed when he finally got the phone back, the rough sound of his cackle seemed like it’d caused my phone to hum along. I smiled. I remember this. I was smiling. I was glad to hear this tale. “So, imagine Mamma, yeah? She had to nurse all of the bee stings and even the bruises—”

“How long was the lecture?”

“God, a millennia, probably. I’m surprised how Carmen still hasn’t given birth to the little one and why I’m not sending the twins to college as is!”

Yuri has always been dramatic, but this time, I was happy to entertain. Quickly though, it was as if a clock has appeared to show us the decreasing time we’re running out of. I heard Yuri’s laugh softens into an echo of a chuckle. I was still wearing my smile. It was a good phone call. It was what I needed. Yet, I held the phone like I was hoping, praying, begging, that it could transport me back to where my brother and his family are. A car passes by and blared a loud horn at a speeding motorcycle. My heart clenched, hating the sound.

“Well, I gotta get the missus and little princesses back home. You be good, okay, Marco? I’ll tell Mamma and Papa you’re alright.”

The phone shut and my brother voice, all metaphorical strings I could somehow imagine connecting me to Jinae, seems to disappear along with my muted phone. That was when the panic slowly rose in my chest. Now, just behind my closed door, I press the palm of my hands right at my eyes, pleading with everything inside of me to not break down. I fail when a tear slips once, then twice. As if a dam has been broken, my shoulders shaking with the effort of my sob.

_I want to go home._

This is not my home. I thought it could be. A little tiny place that I could call my own. I can still recall the day I’ve moved in, the boxes that was piling up, and the many attempts of finding a suitable place to angle my phone so that my family would see how I’m sorting away items that I’ve brought to Sina. I was anxious but bubbly. When I heard the sound of another voice, I was eager to introduce myself. 

_Right_. I remember. Jean, on his phone, and his furious-looking eyes.

It’s days afterwards that I’d realised he wasn't as scary as I’d deemed him to be. No. Not scary, maybe. But Jean was off-putting. Wary. He seemed unappreciative of me ever appearing there as his neighbour, someone who could potentially share a close proximity of the air he’s been inhaling, and I thought it was wise to just remain civil. Who knew he’s the kind of guy who would spend an hour appeasing his mother weekly? The same one who yelps but also cooed at his cat when he thinks no one is hearing?

He’s also the same man who turned me down again and again for a meal.

 _Man_ , I think, surprised to find my eyes have gone dry in my hasty thoughts of my grumpy-looking neighbour. _Am I that bad of a company?_

 _No_ , I argue in my head, picking my bags from the floor and tossing it somewhere where it won’t be a nuisance near the door. My chest still hiccups with each sniffle, but at least I’ve calmed down. _I’m not a bad company_ , I convince myself, pondering only for a second if I’d like to go through the effort of making dinner and deciding I’d prefer to just strip myself until I’m in my boxers, _I’m just having a rough time_.

 _A rough time_ , I tell my head, yet the idea of going back home, no matter the fact that it’s probably only three or four weeks until the semester ends, is enticing. _A break_ , I hear my subconscious negotiate. _A break, clear my head in Jinae, and re-discuss my options_. I could even open my laptop — no, just my phone — and check up the five-to-seven hours, depending on traffic, ride to Jinae. I can be home by tomorrow morning if I catch the midnight bus.

My mind is racing.

I would’ve let it continued racing but my door receives several harsh knocks. It’s a good thing I’ve only just discarded away my socks and have yet to undo my belt or throw away my shirt because it’s cut me on time when my door knocks harshly once more. I frown, quip a raspy, “Coming,” and clear my throat to rid any evidence that I’m, you know, depressed.

When I open the door, my brows furrow at the sight of a wide-eyed Jean.

“Have you seen my cat?” He splutters as soon as my door is open at an acceptable width. This isn’t how I expected our next encounter to be. Then again, I reason, I got my head full of leaving Sina entirely. Maybe I was expecting there’d be no more encounter at all. Even if it had, even if I would return only to move my things out, I don’t think Jean would be up to any meaningful conversation.I don’t want to sound bitter, though maybe I am, but he’d dismissed me enough for me to know that I’m unwanted.

“What?” I hear my automatic respond, and Jean, I could see, has possibly rapidly aged on the spot.

“Morgana. She— I don’t know how, but she got out, I think.” He supplies, and my brain does a hasty job of playing catch-up. Right. So, Jean’s cat is missing. We’re on the fourth floor, so I’m pretty certain she hadn’t leapt from the balcony. I haven’t got a chance to visit the view of the back of our whole apartment building though, which was what our verandah face, but I hope I’m right. “She’s gone. I was calling her to feed her for tonight and she didn’t come out, not from anywhere, and you know there’s no place anyways to hide in our damn rooms, but I checked everywhere, and—”

“Jean,” I’m surprisingly level-headed for someone who’s just spent perhaps the entirety of the last week and several days bawling my eyes out. Maybe it’s a coping or defence mechanism of sort. When it comes to other people’s problem, I become at-the-ready to condition at my top health. However, when it comes to my own dilemma, I crumble under pressure.

“She wasn’t at the balcony, but I didn’t lock it, ‘cause she usually likes to sleep there sometimes when it’s sunny, so I thought maybe she jumped to—”

“Oh.” I understand quickly. The space between our verandah _is_ surprisingly close. A grown man could easily cross over to the neighbour’s if they try. I won’t be surprised if Jean’s cat would attempt the same feat. “Oh, no. I don’t think so.” I answer honestly.

Opening the door wider instinctively, I gesture. “You’re free to look. I just got home too, so maybe I’ve just missed her.”

I doubt so. Not because I’m unhappy to help and would rather Jean and his problems leave me. No, I am determined to help. But because I’m assuming the rational route here. If she’d been here, I would’ve heard her mewl or purr by the time I spent the full ten minutes crying by the door. She doesn’t seem like she was afraid of me before. She would’ve approached me, or made any sound to alert me that she’s there if ever she was hurt and was, indeed, unable to move.

Jean trudge in quickly, and check all of the places I can imagine a cat Morgana-size could fit. When he has his hands on the door to the bathroom, hesitant, I can see his frightened eyes gaze back at me as though in permission.

I hurry, put my palm on it and nudge it open. Jean enters and calls for her. No dice.

The same goes for the rest of my apartment. “Fuck,” Jean murmurs, hands coming up to tug at the lighter strands of his hair. He’s tall, I note, now that we’re in a small space without any door between us, standing a few feet apart. A tall, gangly, and nervously-wrecked man who looks like he’s tearing his hair apart as he curses again and again. I frown.

“Jean, hey, no. Don’t do that.” I come forward, my hand reaching up to tug his elbow away.

Thankfully, he stops, and, to my surprise, doesn’t flinch nor does he spat my hand away. In fact, preoccupied by the fate of Morgana, he only turns his attention directly to me from when he was spitting profanities towards the floor before. I am taken aback by the mounting fear in his eyes. The panic and sadness and possibly guilt. Moreover, I am surprised that I could detect all of that because, I think, I’ve stepped too close. Like this, I feel as if his fright has infected me. I feel instantly sad, but not like before. Not like how I was when I was longing for home.

I was just sad in a way that I wanted to do everything in my power to soothe Jean’s angry lines away from his face.

“We’re…” He manages in a ragged breath. “We’re not allowed to keep pets, you know?”

I wasn’t sure if it was rhetorical or if he’d been really asking. Either way, I keep my focus fully on Jean, and watch as he drags his gaze away. The wide look he wears, the one that emits all of his negative emotions, does not dissipate. He lets my touch linger at his arm. He seems far less— _guarded_ like this. Just another struggling adult desperately asking for help. I feel weirdly attached.

“We’re not—” He swallows, “But I was feeding her, and— and she seems. She seems so well-behaved for… for… a stray cat. And I knew you knew because that damn cat purrs at you sometimes. And— and— _I don’t know_ , I just. She’s never done this before. She never caused a problem like this. She never wanted _to run away_ , I don’t—”

“Jean.”

“Jesus, Marco. I don’t—” He balls his hands into fists and press his eyes into it, shoulders hunching up in a familiar pose that I know very well. _Oh no_ , I think. _Oh, dear_. My heart breaks for him.

“I don’t think she ran away.”

It’s a bold assumption. Who’s to say I was right? Yet, when Jean’s eyes trail back to me, I know it’d been the right sentence to blurt out. He sniffles, his thumb and forefinger pinching his nose together in an attempt, I assume, to stop crying. Jean blinks. A tear falls. He wipes them away and blink again, as if to clear them all at once.

I say it again, just in case, softly, “I don’t think she ran away.”

Jean lets my words wash over him.

Pondering for a few beats, I ponder. “You said you were feeding her.” I patiently put the fact forward. So, Jean picked up a stray. I didn’t expect that. “Where was that, exactly?”

That was how we found ourselves at a common park near our apartment building. The sun has long set, and the nearly pitch-black sky are smattered with stars, though not as much, I could bet, than how it was in Jinae. Barely any, really. Jean calls out as soon as our feet turn that corner into the park, one that was mostly built as a playground for children and recreation centre seeing as it provided space and equipment for families and any physically active individuals.

When we heard a soft mewl, both of us hold our breath. Jean and I turn to each other, our expressions exclaiming, _is that…?_ with hope hanging heavy in each line our face makes.

Jean steps forward. 

And then, like that, I hear him heave, “Fuck, Morgana. _Fuck_ ,” as he kneels besides one of the drains that lines up the park. I knee besides him quickly, furrowing my brows at the fact that Morgana seems to be stuck. One of her legs, that is, trapped in between the parallel metals making up the shape that covers the actual drain. “Oh.” Jean tucks her in his arms, folded together like he’s carrying a newborn. Morgana mews constantly, paws scratching at Jean as if _he_ was the one who had abandoned her.

“There you are.” I greet, and Morgana mews some more, turning to me now and shamelessly complaint about Jean’s misbehaviour. When I reach out to scratch just under her chin, she purrs acknowledgingly. “You’ve got both of us worried, didn’t you, you silly girl?”

Morgana makes several consecutive noises again, though I don’t think it’s to answer to me, scratching only at the sleeves of Jean’s coat.

“I think she’s hurt.” Jean croaks. The relief his expression melts into a strong-willed concern. He looks like it’ll physically impact _him_ now if he moves even an inch of his finger. I question him with a look, wondering what he means. “I… um, it’s the leg. The one that was stuck. Marco—”

“I’ll check online for the nearest vets.” I answer quickly. This is not abnormal to me. In Jinae, vets are a common topic of discussion and a norm visitation spot.

“Stupid. Stupid cat.” Jean manages again, chin dropping down, and the arms that are carrying Morgana slightly raised as if the feline’s a pillow that he would like to bury his face against. I can see his face scrunches up by the bright lamplight of the parks, suggesting he might cry. I feel, suddenly, like I’m gawking at an intimate exchange. My eyes drift back to the buffering Google page. “Yeah, you are. _Stupid_.” Jean adds some more, laughing brokenly.

“There’s one about forty-five minutes away. Is that okay?”

“Shit.” Jean looks a bit sober now, his focus more sharp, his language less riddled with anxiety. If he’s had his hands free, I can imagine him running a distracting hand to push back his hair. I don’t know why. He just appears to be the type of man who would. I could be wrong. “That far, huh?”

“We can uber.”

Jean looks startled at my suggestion. I worry, for a moment, if I’d spoken out of turn. “You sure?”

“About uber? I mean, if I’m honest—” I hear my own voice answering, a hand coming up to rub at the back of my neck as I do so. I get nervous when people ask me about personal opinions regarding services or political changes. It isn’t the sort of topics I feel like I excel at in giving out my thoughts on. “I don’t hundred-percent trust them. I would use their services, in case of emergencies or if I have to, but I would honestly prefer riding public transportation since—”

“No.” Jean interrupts, his face serious, “I mean. It’s late, Marco. You…” He pauses, looking like he’s pained thinking through a proper way to say what he wants to. “Maybe I’m keeping you from something.” He finally settles with, the brows to his gaze appears threatening, but it’s as if I’ve understood immediately that Jean means no harm by that. He’s just troubled, isn’t he? Troubled that he might be troubling me.

I almost want to laugh at the notion.

I think back about my earlier need to want to escape this city; about the search to look up last-minute prices of the bus that will be departing midnight, before I finally see what’s in front of me. Jean is still looking at me. Morgana keeps scratching on his shirt. She must be in some sort of pain. She sure sounds like it. I pull out my handkerchief instinctively. 

“I don’t really have anything waiting for me back home.” I raise the folded cloth in my hand. “Um.”

Jean’s face is wet with shed tears and sweat. He must’ve caught on my meaning too, when his eyes widened for a fraction, taking in my gesture. “Oh. _Fuck_. Um. I’m not walking around here looking exactly like Christina Aguilera, huh?” He fidgets for a second. I find myself grinning.

“Well.” I retaliate. “I don’t think I’m Blake Shelton, either. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Jean blinks at me once. Then, out of the blue it seems, his mouth curls into an open smile. Simply, like that, the glare that he seems to hint at or fully express, melts away. He looks years younger. Handsome. I immediately feel flustered at the realisation. I have Nac, I think — or whatever “have” seems to mean in this context.

“Yeah.” He tells me. “If you, um. I can’t really move my hands, but if you don’t mind—”

This time, it’s my turn to blink and stare at him for a couple of seconds. The meaning he must meant sinking a bit slower in my understanding. However, like the right key inserted in the right lock, I hear a metaphorical click sliding into place. “Oh,” I say, surprised at this new turn of events, but I don’t shy away. I step forward. Jean is asking me to help him wipe away his bodily fluids. I should be disgusted. But, thinking on some states Nac would leave me in, this is far more tolerable.

Jean panics, “You don’t have to—”

But the press of my fingers are already dipping the material against his cheeks and under-eyes. Jean closes his eyes at the contact, whether he’s surprised or touch-starved, I’m not certain. Either way, I feel a slight heat rising up my own face. “I don’t mind,” I tell him in a whisper. Between us, Morgana meows, watching her owner being dabbed on by the familiar near-stranger.

“There,” I exclaimed, stepping back once I’m satisfied. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Jean nods. “Put it in my back pocket, I’ll clean it and give it back to you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not negotiating, Marco.” He’s smirking when our eyes are locked again, knowing he’s got me. Surrendering, I slide my handkerchief down the pocket of his jeans. Jean mentions about the forty-five minute time once more, bringing us back to our initial topic. I nod my head, and book us an uber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. It's my birthday today! So, here goes one of my favourite chapter to write! I wish I could write more on my thoughts and feelings buuuut I've also been struck with the worst migraine of the century on my birthday, so! I'll follow up with some notes that I've already pre-written:
> 
> ii. I may have gotten slightly carried away by this chapter. May have. In the sense that, if I’m honest, there’s so many content I have to actually put but I have to change and/or adapt ‘cause I keep lengthening Jean and Marco’s interactions. The whole Marco-wiping-away-Jean’s-sweat thing weren’t in the initial draft. It was just something my brain wanted to add last-minute, so. Have that accidentally-acted-like-they’re-super-intimate-during-one-of-their-first-full-conversation scenario. I, certainly, had fun writing it.
> 
> iii. I've already crafted Marco's whole family and their names. One of these days, I'll reveal them to you. But, fun fact: all of Marco's siblings are named after famous travellers and historians who has discovered a land / territory / or have done things that mankind haven't done before. So, there's that, I guess!
> 
> iv. I don't know when the next chapter will be dropped since the activity on my end has picked up due to college starting, but! Do leave reviews and kudos if this chapter suits your fancy? And feel free to hit me up, here or at my tumblr @maariarogers, if you'd like to see anything in particular! I may just be able to write that in :)


	9. Jean, The Smartass and The Asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! So, let's not waste any time. Here is the next chapter.

It’s two a.m. by the time we arrived home.

Marco is holding the bags of medicines the vet has prescribed for Morgana and he’s been kind enough to offer unlocking the door to my apartment when I still refuse to let go of Morgana. I probably should feel guilty. And I am. Especially when we were waiting for our turn to be called in: I remember bopping my knees up-and-down in anxiety, only ever truly slowing down when Morgana mews sadly at me and I had to reflexively coax her, when I realised that I’d brought Marco along.

Marco. Who, technically, is almost a stranger.

Well, okay.  _ Fine _ . We’ve been neighbours for a few months now and we’ve struck some decent short conversations. I’ve heard enough about him as well through our walls to establish several facts regarding his person. Few examples being that Marco’s a moaner and his sex partner treats him like shit. Intimate details, I’m aware, but those are still not enough for me to constitute as ‘knowing him’, you know?

Yet, he sat there next to me the entire time even though I’ve caught him held out on a few yawns while pet owners after pet owners went before us. (In all honesty, it probably wasn’t a lot of people. But I was panicking and it was late. Two types of states I have held believed that I may not be the best judgement of character nor time.) 

In fact! The only time Marco had excused himself by my side was to go to the restroom. Even then, he’d returned with warm milk that he has had to blow for me before I could force myself to take a sip. That was actually when it dawned me  _ how Marco was actually there _ . 

_ I must be crazy! _ I thought.  _ Who brought his near-stranger neighbour on a random midnight trip to a veterinary hospital? _

I did.

However, as guilty as I’d felt, I surprise myself by not feeling regret at this split-second decision to knock on his door in the first place. Marco’s presence is welcoming,  _ comforting _ . It was kind of like having the loyalty of ConSash with me, but meshed up with having Hannah and Franz’s steadying vibe of safety. Yes, I could probably drill a hole into the hospital’s floor with how much my knees were shaking, but with Marco there, I felt like I knew he wouldn’t let me.

_ Feel _ . Present tense.

Even now, Marco smiles sleepily when he manages to twist the key and the knob turns. I’m grateful that the layout of our apartments are nearly the same, so my freckled neighbour doesn’t fumbles for the switches. Once the light is on, illuminating my kitchen and hallway leading up to the rest of the area, Marco takes off his shoes and enter. I let him, waiting for that feeling of being intruded, but then I keep seeing the blaring white plastic where the doctor has prescribed Morgana’s medicines, and I couldn’t. I don’t feel like Marco’s intruding at all.

Hell, he’s hovering! As if he’s unsure if he’s really welcome.

_ Why wouldn’t you be? _ I wanted to snap, the exhaustion of the day’s stress catching up to me, but I grit my teeth.  _ If anything, I should be kissing your feet! You’re kind of a goddamn angel! _

Thankfully, my stupid mouth doesn’t run on its own course. I allow Marco to do those hesitant shuffle by the entryway that separates the small hallway to the rest of my living area, while I put Morgana down on the mini beanbag where she’s basically made it her official bed at this point. I’ve never really considered it before, the full maintenance of taking care of a pet.

So far, all I’ve provided for Morgana was giving her a place where she could excrete her waste and slurp her daily meal. If it hadn’t been for the trip to the hospital, I would’ve never considered all of these things. The vet was really disappointed that I didn’t bring Morgana for a proper check up once I’ve decided to take her in from the street. That’s part of the reason why we were kept for so long. Morgana didn’t exactly have a history of health I could dump the knowledge to the medical staff.

_ Whatever _ , I decide, petting Morgana by her head when she mews a tiny bit, jostled by the force I’ve let out when I put her down. She’s medicated now, so she’s quick to fall asleep. I let her. Then, slowly, I stand up.

Discarding my worn and ketchup-stained hoodie aside, I smoothen down my t-shirt and hear myself ask aloud, “You had dinner yet?”

In my defense, I’m not sure what I’m asking. All that I know is that, it’s late,  _ Marco’s right there _ , and the taste where I’ve drank the warm milk he bought is staining the roof of my mouth. I have a hazy memory from probably five hundred years ago of eating a stale sandwich I bought from the campus’ dollar store. I hate to be the typical French, but if I had a say on half of my lineage, I’d disown the excuse of a cheese I was fed with.

It doesn’t matter now, though. ‘Cause right now, I feel like I could summon my energy to whip anything for Marco.  _ I want to _ . It’s ridiculous, but—

“Pardon?” Marco blinks, confused.

“Dinner.” I clarify. “Or, I mean — supper. Whatever. If you haven’t had any, I can whip you up something.”  _ I want to _ , I wanted to add. I didn’t. I’m clothed to my socked toes, but I feel so bare at the same time.

“Jean,” Marco says like a gentleman. I keep seeing his freckled face approaching me with that cup and sitting next to me the entire time I’ve had Morgana near my chest at the hospital. I know immediately from the tone he’s using that he’s logically thinking I’m insane. What I should’ve probably said instead was a truthful thank, not — whatever the hell I’m attempting.

Listen. I’m a functioning human being, okay? Not sensible.

“Hey,” I hear myself interrupting. I cast my eyes downwards. The shadows from the hallways and from the night outside clashed on the floor where I could see them intermingle. For a second, I relate to the visual of it: the blue of the night and the annoying yellow light that collides. I feel both the leftover of my anxiety and guilt crashes like waves with the relief I have in Marco’s presence. More than that, I just feel desperate. Worn out. I’m not ready for my neighbour to leave. 

“I — I don’t think I’m… a nice guy.” I don’t know where I’m going with this. I’m clearly stupid. “And I’ve probably been like, an asshole to you—”

“Jean, no—”

“But… I just… I don’t - I don’t think I can be alone.” If there are any similes I could pull in the moment, I’d probably choose one where it’s as if wording the words out were like knives slashed through my throat. I hate feeling vulnerable. The last time I did with anybody that is not  _ Maman _ … It burned me. Yet— “For now, I mean.  _ For now _ .”

By my side, I have my fists clenched. Marco doesn’t say anything for a long time.

I’m worried I dreamt him all along, but, as soon as the thought enters my brain, Marco sighs. He steps into my field of vision. His grey sock with my own mismatched — one’s black, the other has red polka dots — is a funny sight. He makes me want to look up; brave myself for his expression.

“Yeah,” Marco nods, and there’s the careful kindness there that I remember seeing from the first time he practised saying my name properly on his tongue. He’s such a good guy! Such a good guy. Why is he with someone who treats him so badly? Presently, Marco only nods some more, smiling when he confirms, “Yeah, I can go for a late supper.”

“Yeah,” I echo dumbly. “Yeah, just—make yourself at home. Or whatever.”

I feel foolish suggesting that. If the walls are taken down, Marco  _ is _ home.

“Is there any place I can, uh, put my jacket?” Marco begins undoing the one he wears, and I vaguely gesture towards my unmade bed. I hope there isn’t any stain from where I’ve drooled smeared into my pillow as obviously. Marco may not be going around telling that to everybody but damn, I gotta maintain some semblance of my integrity.

“Just drop it there. If you’re worried about wrinkling, just take a hanger and put it in the wardrobe. It’s fine.” I’m already checking up my stock for what I can quickly cook. I’m glad to find the package for a Pancake Mix box that I’ve only half-used. Score. I think I even have some berries left to go with it and everything.

This is perfect.

“How cool are you with breakfast for dinner?”

“Oh, uh—I guess I’m okay?” Marco folds his jacket and lays them on the bed. He seems hesitant again, standing there between my bed and scattering his eyes to the beanbag where Morgana continues to breathe in her sleep. It’s as if I’ve forbade him to look at anything else besides those two areas. I can also sense he has half a mind to join me at the stove, and I’m right, when he tentatively makes his way to the entryway where I’m mixing everything together. “As long as it’s hot, right?”

I think there were a few seconds there that I was tempted to feel annoyed — was I that menacing of a man that I kept making Marco look like he’s shrinking in size? — but I’m smiling again. My grin is proud, and my eyes are gleaming. “Hell yeah, dude.”

Marco seems to accept the answer, smiling along me.

“I even have eggs. They’re—cheap, though. If you’re okay with that?” I love omelettes. My apartment never run out of eggs because of it.

“No, yeah, of course. Of course, I am.”

I kind of want to snicker, heating my pan. I settle with hopefully having my disarming face on instead, protruding, “You don’t gotta’ sound like I’m holding a knife to you, okay? Seriously, I won’t, like, beat you up or anything if you have some weird egg allergies.”

For a few moments, Marco gapes at me, standing there by the fridge. I try to act as if I’m not watching his reaction from the corners of my eyes. I don’t know if I’m successful.

However, like a flower succumbing to gravity, Marco wilts a little. Not negatively. Just — doesn’t look as high strung anymore. He relaxes against the fridge and when he smiles this time, I can see both his tiredness from the day and amusement from the conversation leaks into his face. He looks charming. Like, a Disney Prince or something. Damn, he probably is — with how nice he’s been to me all night. 

“Jean, I hardly think you’ll beat me up after the tears you leaked.”

You know what? I take it back. 

“Hey, you—!” I yelp, and Marco’s smile grows wider. He has wrinkles by his eyes. That’s  _ amazing _ . “If anything, that’s a reason to beat you up more.”

“ ‘Cause you’re a teary-eyed baby?” He feigns confusion. 

I want to smack him with my spatula. Instead, I pour the first mix of pancake. “Cause I’m very manly, and I’m not afraid to demonstrate it, bastard.”

Marco laughs this time. In spite of myself, I smile along. I’m glad he isn’t as wary as before. In all honesty, Marco’s correct. I’m not much of a fighter. Yeah, hell. I can sprout some bullshit to hurt, but if it ever came down to fists? Count me the fuck out. I’m so glad we didn’t leave in any age where fighting is essential. If I have trouble with anybody, a restraining order is a perfectly fine solution to my problem.

“Smells good already.” Marco chirps. I hum, agreeing. “You want me to take the eggs?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

He does. Tugging at the fridge and pulling what I need. I reach over to provide the eggs a place where I’m beating the hell out of them — a bowl — and immediately return to the stove to flip the pancake that I have.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Uh, no. The kitchen’s already cramped with how small it is. I don’t need to accidentally elbow you in the lungs or anything.”

Marco hovers once more. He doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. I’d tip my spatula to my chin for comical effect, but all I’m doing in reality is pour the next mix to form the second pancake. The first one sits golden and calm to my right on the plate in a perfect size. I even out the mix.

“Maybe you can heat up the water and make us something to drink. Everything should be in cabinet atop the fridge, so you don’t really need to move. No lungs are damaged that way.”

Marco shakes his head, but he smiles. It’s a good smile. I can understand Marco’s appeal. “You have unnecessary worries about harming me, Jean. That is, before you threaten to do exactly what you say you’re worried about.” A pause. “Kind of self-conflicting, isn’t it?”

Oh, so Marco’s a smart ass. Nobody’s ever told  _ me _ this.

“I have history, is all. I don’t need to be a repeat offender.”

It takes me a second to realise  _ exactly _ what I’m implying.

“I mean! I don’t—actually beat up anybody or anything. I just used to have this temper. And reputation. An angry kid, you know? With lots of angry things to say.” I try to maintain eye-contact with Marco throughout this conversation, but the pancake distract me as much as my shame from my past does. I know I have a different point of view than I did in the past, and I’ve mostly changed for the better, but it still haunted me. “I hurt people a lot that way. Half the time I meant it, the other half I don’t. I guess it kind of became a default setting in my brain to just, like, make sure everybody kept a safe distance from me, if that makes sense. But at the same time, I gotta— also make sure everybody sort of understand that I’m really, like, harmless. I could barely hurt a fly. And trust me.” I sound serious. “I’ve tried.”

Marco laughs at the end of my speech. Thankfully. I feel like, maybe, this whole “friend thing”? It isn’t so bad, after all. I need to stop finding them in pairs and Marco seems like a legit candidate.

Until my mind remembers Nac, and I curse just as the pancake near-misses my plate.

“I think…” Marco starts, hands in his pocket. He’s wearing a long sleeve sweater with a shirt under. He looks like one of those preppy school kids. I can’t help but to enjoy the view. In comparison, I look like I could give barely a crap at what I do everyday. Worn  _ Game of Thrones _ shirt with the logo of the Stark’s direwolf and ill-fitting pants. I swear I’m more fashionable than this. “I think I’ve always known you would never hurt me.”

I don’t know why those words felt as if Marco’s punched me in the ribs, but it silenced me just the same. Not … necessarily in a bad way, though. More like, I hadn’t expected him to say that, and my body is reeling from the fact that he had.

“I mean ... words are different,  _ but… _ ” Marco trails off, shrugging a shoulder. “I always thought I could take you.”

“Oh, you  _ asshole! _ ” I snap, though not because I was trying to be mean. In fact, there’s a bright feeling that sneaks into my chest. The kind of feeling I don’t think not everybody would experience at around 2:30 AM in the morning after a long trip from a hospital for pets.

“No, I’m serious!” Marco laughs along. The corners of his eyes crinkling even further and his freckles are all scrunched up from the effort. “I’m physically slightly bigger than you, and you don’t know where I grew up—”

“Jinae,” I supply under my breath, between my smiling mouth.

Marco pauses.

I raise an eyebrow. “Uh… right? ‘Cause that’s what you said, remember? When you gave me your tea?” Damn. Don’t tell me I was the only one who seems to be affected from the gesture. That’s kinda lame.

“The tea…?”

Shit. Was I right? Did Marco forgot?

The highs of my cheeks feel hot.

“C’mon, man.” I try to chuckle, wanting with absolute certainty to appear cool and collected. Two words I’m not always associated with. If ConSash got a wind of this, they’re definitely cracking up about my situation. “Don’t tell me you forgot. You gave it when—”

“Yeah, I just.” Marco hastily cuts me, and he looks - dumbfounded, I think. Astounded. Like he can’t believe his ears what exactly I’m sprouting into this world. The seventh mix is poured into the pan. “I didn’t think you  _ remembered _ .”

I scratch my chin uncomfortably. “I guess I looked pretty deadbeat then. Long day and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Marco agrees, even though I know in my very core that my excuse wasn’t all that terrific or reasonable enough to be accepted. 

I find myself scrambling, “I mean! If I wasn’t, I doubt you’d offer me your, uh,  _ tea _ .” I flip my pan. The nicely shaped pancake flips along with my movement. “Oh geez, now it sounds like a euphemism. Fuck you, Marco.”

I don’t mean it.

Yet, for a second, I’m nervous that Marco might not know that.

From the corners of my eyes though, Marco blinks. And then, slowly, as if sent from the heavens to my doorstep — or the next door over’s — he smiles like he could see past through my shitty attempt at being comfortable suave in this whole “making a friend” thing. Marco smiles wide, and it’s - it’s so nice. It’s  _ great _ . I have this sudden collision of memories from when I heard Marco yelling with his, er — boyfriend? Partner?  _ Nac Tius _ — and, though I’m drenched with a handful wave of guilt from eavesdropping, I feel a need to make sure Marco doesn’t experience even a ten-percent of  _ shit _ he’s got with Nac Tius around me. Dude’s a jackass. I mean, I’m not a goddamn saint, but fuck him.

“Honestly, that wasn’t my first thought. I’m surprised you’ve got a very — ah,  _ active imagination _ , Jean.”

“ _ Smart motherfucker _ .” I curse in French accusingly; Marco laughs even harder.

“Hey, that isn’t fair!”

“ _ Watch me, asshole _ .” I grin once again, emptying the bowl of the mixed batter now into the pan. The last one. By my left, Marco starts digging into the cabinet. Though because it’s opened to the right, my view was blocked easily on what it is that Marco has picked. For a moment, he seems to still and just - stare into the abyss that my cabinet has provided.

Then, slowly, I watch him pull out the thin box carrying the teabags.

He lifts the bag up, smiling through a nod, “I’ll heat up the water.”

A few minutes later, ten to fifteen minutes give or take, I prepare two individual plates with pancakes along with a separate one where I’ve quickly cooked scrambled eggs. I would’ve opted for omelettes, but I didn’t find any better ingredients to mix it together for Marco’s first introduction to one of my famous meal, and I’m prideful enough to want to impress him with it.

_ Next time _ , I grin some more, thoughtful, listening to how Marco said he’d prefer hot chocolates, if he’s being honest, despite being raised in an otherwise religious followers of tea-drinkers. I tell him I just prefer a straight-up coffee, sometimes no sugar at all to satisfy my darkening soul, and watch him crinkle his nose unimpressively.

That is, before the both of us inclines our heads together and laugh again.

Marco pours his maple syrup excessively, I take bites of my pancake along with the egg.

Morgana sleeps through it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Believe it or not, I started this chapter with three lines, stop, and _left it for weeks_ because I didn’t know exactly how to continue it considering it’s sort of diverged from what I had planned. (Lol I got writer’s block.) In my defense, I have no idea how veterinary works. I’m just basing it on research and random questions that I texted my best friend who owns like, six cats with her family.
> 
> ii. To add to that, once I did continue, I was bugged out by the details of Jean and Marco’s room half-way through, so I stop again, just to sketch up a basic plan of their apartments. Here is the [official visual](https://66.media.tumblr.com/763388a3dddd012398c7e98d2b4f1420/tumblr_pwaotk9kvZ1rhwccpo1_1280.png), and here is [the visual with added details](https://66.media.tumblr.com/cc3b636ef18b44267864326dbead1584/tumblr_pwaotk9kvZ1rhwccpo2_1280.png) that I consider when I was finally drawing them all out. And then, and only then, was I finally comfortable with continuing. I had to stop though ‘cause it was four am then, and sleep was essential. Apparently.
> 
> iii. Regardless, Chapter 9 has me pumped up ‘cause Marco and Jean are officially exchanging actual conversation even though, half-way through, I’m gobsmacked by Jean’s inability to make up his mind about Marco being in his room! He feels elated, but guilty, but snappish, and then happy? It’s an odd state to be in. I hope Jean is okay.
> 
> iv. For anybody who is still reading this: THANK YOU SO MUCH. You guys are the best, and here's to hoping the rest of this story will be written accordingly, hehe.


	10. Marco, Sorting Through the Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the tables turn. Is that all I'm saying about this chapter? Why, yes.

I haven’t been feeling like this for some time now, I think.

Feeling like what, you may ask? Like I’m the one fool in the audience who still hasn’t caught up with the magician’s trick even though I’ve been subjected to the experience a couple of times directly as it is. I feel stupid. And sad. Even though the second emotion is more of a common and soon-to-become default setting at this point.

I don’t want it to be, though.

After being pulled over and asked to stay behind by one of my lecturers, Ms. Ral, I’ve started to pick up on Armin’s idea once more. Before, I was just toying with it. I wasn’t serious. A thought to consider but quickly dismiss was all it was. I thought I was right. I didn’t like the image of me having to dump my ridiculous feelings all over someone else, and I don’t need that certain someone else to walk around having this  _ knowledge _ over me that I have absolutely no control over in knowing whether it’ll be kept a true secret or otherwise.

Yet, Ms. Ral — who was never much of a strict sort of educator in the first place — had pulled me aside. She said she was worried.

I suppose she remembered the version of me who was bright-eyed and excited for the dreams I’ve built my whole teenage years around. I remember him, too. I want him back too. So, yes. Now, I’m walking around — or rather, I’m dragging my feet, hoping it’ll appear functional enough to be passed as  _ humanly walking _ — while fingering on a map of the University’s campus to just stare at the destination I hope somehow I equally will miss and find all at the same time.

Oh, that, and I’m also frowning at a particular series of pictures posted by Nac of his latest adventure of partying with his friends.

Friends, of course, is what I’m assuming — not that he’s ever really talked or introduced me to anyone. Though I quickly scold myself over the foolish idea. Why would he? Wasn’t the point of us sleeping together without dating was  _ because _ he didn't intend to introduce me to anybody ever?

And, as if to rub salt on open wounds, there is a particular picture I’ve been staring at that’s provided me with an emotion outside the conflicting sadness I’m struggling with and the hopeless realisation that everybody has seen and judged me from it. It was anger and bitter jealousy. There is a picture of Nac with his arm around another guy and his lips are pressed against the man’s cheek. The man was holding out a champagne he looks like he’s opening, open mouthed and cheeks red. I assume it’s a friendly and a drunkenly taken photograph, if the captions and comments were any indication. Nac is against a full romantic relationships, which was something he made _ very clear _ to me whenever we were at each other’s throats or simmering silently in our anger, so I don’t think this man was anybody that I should regard seriously.

_ And yet _ .

I’m tapping on the photo, I’m looking him over in other people’s pictures, I’m scrolling down his history. For those short ten minutes it’s been since I’ve discovered the picture and was struck paralysed by the thought of being “betrayed”, I’ve become a temporary stalker. I don’t like this sudden rush of panic I could feel surging in my veins. It’s ugly and it makes my chest hurts. But, at the same time, I can’t stop.

I’m tempted to burst into tears again.

_ How dare he _ , I want to utter.  _ Why would he do this to me when he knows I could see it? _

I bet he’s just trying to get back at me.

After all, the last time he was around, he didn’t even get to fuck me. Even if he had, or we perform anything sexual, it was sloppy and hard and unfeeling. There was one time where I had refused to look at him, and Nac stopped halfway to demand me to. When I gritted out a “No,” he stopped and left me there, half naked and cold.

I feel bad now, remembering that.

Was it really Nac’s fault?

Since the beginning, he had stressed that it was only physical, whatever between us. And he could be so sweet, behind a perfectly shut door. He even made promises that he would take me out one day. “It won’t be as hectic as it is now.” He said, “I could treat you better then.”

Maybe it’s me.

Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it’s the city, I contemplate again, just not suiting me like I thought and hoped it would. I was naive. I wanted to see the world and the world was mean and cruel and it went too fast for a country boy who had just learnt how to read the maps, and I couldn’t take it.

_ Counselling, huh? _ Perhaps I could open up to the idea of — differing. Like I hastily plan in one of my depressing teary state.

I could go back. Re-centre. See my family again.

And if things really were that bad, maybe… maybe I won’t ever have to come back.

“Hey, Marco!”

The voice sounds like it’s smiling. Cheerful to greet me. I lift my chin up. Had I been looking down towards my open phone this whole time? And there he is, in a white shirt splaying the head of  _ Darth Vader  _ paired with a green jacket, jogging over to me. Jean. He’s got his hair pushed back by a plastic black headband and the simple act does wonder to showcase his face even clearer. I can see acne scars that he doesn’t bother to hide near the temples, and his angry-looking brows appearing sharp and thin — but I know better now to point out that Jean isn’t angry at all.

In fact, he’s smiling: just a tiny bit of mischievous and toothy. _At_ _me_.

Who would’ve thought, huh?

“What’cha been up to?” He asks, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Hello, Jean.” I manage somewhat politely. There’s something inside of me that wishes desperately how I could match his mood, but after today… I know it’s wishful thinking. It’s too bad, though. I  _ want _ to have a good conversation. I want to smile and joke around again like we did when he was cooking pancakes at two in the morning.  _ Gosh, that night _ , I reminisced.  _ I want to go back to that night _ . “You’re done with class?”

“Nope.” The ‘p’ in his reply is emphasised. Jean is goofy, I think. It’s kind of funny now, looking back to think he was anything but. “Cancelled.” He clarifies.

“Ah.” But he had already came to the campus? It must be a last-minute cancellation. That kind of sucks.

“Yeah, I think there’s been a case with a few of the students…” He goes on. I raise an eyebrow, curious, until Jean catches my expression. His ears turn red at the sight. “I mean! Not like that!  _ Geez _ , the guy can be a snarky asshole, but I was talking about, like, the students skipping classes a lot. You know, assignments skipped and stuff like that.”

A stone sinks in my stomach.  _ Yeah _ , my mouth nearly blatantly reply.  _ I know _ .

“It just got so much worse ‘cause the aforementioned kids got caught partying. By the frickin’ police. There were drugs involved. It’s a whole shitshow.”

I let out another sound to signal my understanding, but Jean’s previous statement stays with me. I skipped classes a lot, too. If it weren’t for my teammates’ dedication to pull me aside and make sure to stay with me until I’m done with my part of the assignment, I’m certain there will be more lecturers outside of Ms. Ral right now that would’ve requested for me to stay behind.

“Yeah, I think an expulsion is on the table, or something. To be honest, I don’t really care.”

_ You don’t? _ I don’t know why, but hearing that from Jean suddenly makes everything hurts a thousand times fold. 

“Hell, I think they kind of had it coming. Sure, colleges are… the time for you to do all of those things, I guess. But I don’t know. It just seemed dumb when you’re caught, you know?”

Ms. Ral’s gentle hand on my elbows when she called my name felt like poison all of a sudden. I can’t breathe. This can’t be happening right now. I want to find Armin. Anybody. I want to go home. I can’t breathe.

“Anyways, I — that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I kinda, uh, was hoping I’d bump into you actually, man. I wasn’t sure from which department you were, so I was just lounging around at the Plaza hoping pass by right it. And fuck, to think I’d be right, huh?” Jean’s voice seems so kind. I know he’s no idea what it is that he’s truly talked about, and I know he’s no idea how it’s impacted me. I know he has only sincere intentions, but I want to scream at him to back off. 

God, I need that counselling session badly, huh?

“And if you’re free, I was thinking I’d take you up on the offer to eat. Yeah,” he says the last one as if he’s confirming with himself on his offer. Lately, all of my experiences with Jean has had me be surprised with things that he remembered regarding my person. First, my name. Then, my hometown. When I cradled the teabags I have half a mind to think he’s thrown away, I was sure there isn’t anything else he could shock me with. And now a sudden change in behaviour about all those times about catching a meal together?

“Marco?”

I don’t know if I should feel touched, or just puke out from the mass of confusion that’s scrambling my brain.

Is Jean playing a prank on me? It kind of feel like he is.

“Hey, man. You alright? You, uh — kinda been staring at me.”

I blink out of the stupor. He’s right. I have… sort of, been staring at Jean. Maybe kind of awkwardly too. I want to summon the version of myself who has a reply at the ready, but I’m blanking out. There’s a patch somewhere on the ground that looks like old pieces of gum stuck, though it’s been worn down by the rain and heavy footsteps that it’s nothing more than a smudge. Suddenly, though gross, it captivates me.

“Dude, you okay?”

I snap my attention back to Jean. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

_ I’m not _ . I want to say,  _ Jean, I’m miserable. I’m from out of town and I thought I would like this place, but I miss everything so much. I want to be happy and fine and content, but I can’t. How do you do it? You’re not from here too, are you? Are you sad, as well? _

Jean staggers. This time, he’s the one who’s staring at me oddly. “Shit. I mean, is it ‘cause I kept you till nearly four in the morning the other day? I didn’t mean—”

“Jean, it’s—”  _ Not that _ , though I was more than glad that my class for the next day was in the afternoon instead of an early morning. Not that I came. I had plans to go. Yet, I remember staring at the alarm I set up and shutting it off only to crawl back into bed.  _ This can’t go on _ , I thought then.  _ I’m sick of not being productive, of slacking off, of feeling like I’m failing all the time _ . I try to smile now, “Of course not.”

Jean doesn’t look convinced. He must either be very perceptive, or he —  _ cares _ . I’m not certain why the latter notion seems so humorlessly impossible, but it is.

After all, what’s there to care about? Aside from the few encounters, aren’t I… just a stranger? A neighbour Jean coincidentally was paired up with? He never much gave a second thought about me before, so why should he—

_ Stop _ , I scold myself.  _ Please stop _ .

I think of Jean’s easy grin in the kitchen with a spatula. Whatever pain my chest harbours, it ebbs away a tiny bit.

“Of course not.” I say it again, much more sincerely. _ One day _ , I suddenly vow,  _ I’ll have more of those moments where Jean will look to me with a simple smile _ .  _ We’ll talk and have fun and joke around and I won’t feel like I want to drag my feet just to get to anywhere _ . I remember leaving Jean’s place already eager to see Morgana progressing to a better health. I was expecting a new day. I wanted it.

Just to have that night again.

“Okay.” Jean nods at me. He looks serious now, regarding me with an intense expression. “Okay, Marco. I believe you.”

_ One day _ , I nod right back, smiling a bit.  _ Wait for me _ .

I want to be good friends with you.

“So, uh — if you’re still up for it,” He kind of jumps to his toes for a tiny bit, taking a deep breath. “Lunch?”

I tell Jean ‘no’, and watch his face falls. My heart follows suit, which prompts me to tear my gaze back to the ground. Out of all of the looks I thought I would see on Jean’s face, that certainly wasn’t it. Yet, I steel myself. I made my decision.

Once part, I resume my route to the place I’m now more than determined as ever to enter. It takes me a while, but it’s still pretty close by to the Plaza. It forces me to climb a few steps to get to my destination. Once I can spot the door which I assume leads me to the office, I find myself glancing back to look at the scenery below me.

I wasn’t very high, since the office is only on the second floor. Yet, the Plaza stretch wide and open regardless. I could spot students piling up pavements and sidewalks and empty chairs and tables. Some of them are eating and chatting with their group of friends, others are hurrying to the side of the campus, and then there are some who are just lounging about, not particularly rushed nor up to anything. There is a spot there, near the entrance, where I could imagine I stepped into this University for the first time. I looked up then, I remember, and I was smiling. Then, right at  _ that _ spot, near that cafe, Armin said hi to me the first time along with the strings of new students.

My phone buzzes.

I look down to see my sister has texted me, but what draws me to the screen is the last page I left it at. Nac and another man pressed side-to-side. I feel the pain wells up like hot fire eating on gasoline. I close my screen shut once I feel my lower lips tremble, and force my eyes to scan the scenery once more.

I wonder where Jean was going to take me for lunch if I had said yes.

Maybe I should’ve. The Counselling Office will always be there with its door open. Jean, on the other hand, and his offer and his hair pushed back by the thin wire of his strange headband, though it looks pretty adorable…  _ No _ , I stop myself. There’s no point having a good time with Jean right now if I’m only going to be triggered back into sandbags of sadness at every other things I spot that will whirl my emotions back to instability.

_ Okay, Marco. I believe you _ .

I take a deep breath, turn my back onto the Plaza where my gaze has only started to identify the spot Jean has stopped me only a few minutes ago, and push the door open.

A lady greets me.

I set up my first appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. If you google “guy hair headband”, the first few pictures that will show up is a photograph of Zayn Malik in a similarly imagined headband that I was picturing Jean was styled in. He got it cheap when he was buying toilet paper in bulk.
> 
> i. (part two) Side story, when I was a tiny human, I was conversing with my older cousin. He was much older than me — maybe a teenager at that point? — and I had picked up a headband. I was eight and dumb, and I asked, “Whose is this?” and he plucked it out of my hand and wore it and smiled toothily at me like, “Mine.” I giggled, cause I was eight. “That can’t be right. Headbands are for girls!” He shrugged a shoulder and went, “Who said that?” and my view of the world ever since was changed. I had thought men with headbands were always automatically cool from this single piece of memory henceforth. So, yeah. Jean.
> 
> ii. Again, this story deals with the depression that comes with a huge change in environment / feeling out of place / not fitting in. I, personally, am not the best advocate to be speaking about this matter, but I have had experiences regarding this and I’ve seen this a lot in my family members and people I didn’t think would experience the same. What I particularly wanted to strive with Marco and his approach to his mental health is that, he’d wanted to seek the necessary treatment or solution for himself.   
> I believe, while it seems obvious, it is not always something that could be easily done. Marco could’ve easily wanted to be better for Nac, or Jean, or his family—but in how I interpret his character, I want him to seek treatment because it would, first and foremost, benefit him. I want him to learn to put value in himself, in his time, in his personality etc because he is worth the long journey to get himself better.
> 
> To repeat, I am not the best advocate to speak about these delicate and sensitive matters, especially since there are a hundred and thousands of reasons why people coped the way they did. But learning how to prioritise my well-being and realising that I wasn’t in a mentally safe space for myself due to the environment around me being particularly harmful (even if it wasn’t in the traditional sense) was a journey that I felt very personal and wanted to somehow narrate through Marco’s own experiences. Remember, it’s important to reach out and know, though it’ll be hard, that you are important. You deserve to feel much, much better about yourself, about your situation, about your relationships with others etc.
> 
> iii. On another note, happy NaNoWriMo! I think I might want to participate and try to update this weekly once more buuuut my schedules have also been growing in size, so! I'm hoping there'll be time. In case there isn't, I'll see you guys again in the next chapter—whenever that may be!
> 
> iv. On another _another_ note: the next chapter is probably one of my faves. Wink, wink.


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